Winter in the Dreadfort
by fractalenchant
Summary: Eira is travelling South from Karhold seeking to escape the bitterly cold North when she crosses paths with the mad Bastard of the Dreadfort. Captured and deprived of her freedom, she grows wild in the arms of Ramsay. Dark Romance.
1. Introduction

_This story draws from both the ASOIAF novels and the GoT TV show adaptation. Based upon Iwan Rheon's portrayal in the TV show mixed with a few details from the books (for example, Myranda doesn't exist.)_

This is my first fanfic, I would be very grateful for any comments and reviews.

A huge thankyou to DaenerysTargary3n and GoodyGumDrops for taking their time to beta this chapter! Shout out to GoodyGumDrops for inspiring me to write this, if you want another Ramsay fix I highly recommend their story 'I Exist Alone In Your Bed.'

Warnings: Contains smut, kink and some violence. Ramsay is his own warning.

 _(Eira: Pronounced Eye-ra, meaning snow in Welsh.)_

* * *

Eira eyed the half-frozen stones of the Weeping Water cautiously as she edged alongside the river. She was weary from the long journey from Karhold and was making her way further South until she reached long days of sunshine and sweet summer wine. The light was growing dim and her stomach knotted in dread. She had hoped to reach the Sheepshead Hills by nightfall to set up camp. The woods were no place to be after dark. Wolves, massive elk and even the occasional shadow cat roamed freely- lighting a fire would be a beacon to easy prey such as herself. Already, her breath was vapour and left thick, ghostly clouds as she exhaled.

She was a tall and wiry girl with long sinewy limbs. Her skin was as pale as milkglass and her dark hair framed a serious, pensive face that made her look older than she ought. She was attractive, with full ruby lips and doe eyes that were a little too large for her heart-shaped face. But she wasn't desirable in the same way carefree girls were, who laughed bawdily at japes and flashed sultry smiles. She was as glacial and impenetrable as her namesake. Boys didn't pursue her during adolescence, she grew increasingly isolated as she reached womanhood, focusing solely on hunting and the mundane chores that permeated her commoner life.

The Dreadfort loomed in the distance beyond the bank of the river. The triangular merlons on the thick castle walls looked like sharp stone teeth in the twilight. Rows of torches jutted out of the battlements held by skeletal human hands, bathing the castle in demonic red light. It was a cursed place that offended even the gods. The townsfolk all knew the flayed human skin of their enemies decorated the walls. Eira would rather risk the elements than seek shelter or stray too near to the perimeter but with any luck she might find a friendly miller who might offer her a place to sleep in their grain barn in exchange for the last few rusty halfpennies that lay in the pockets of her furs.

Deep in thought, she lost her foothold and hit the damp ground with a moist thud, the bag containing the game she had hunted for her supper rolling precariously towards the embankment. Cursing her foolishness, she gingerly tried to stand up but her foot gave out beneath her. She tried to quell the sickening panic rising in her stomach as she took her boot off to assess her swollen ankle. It was rapidly growing into an angry purple plum. She bit her lip hard, refusing to submit to the tears which threatened to spill down her cheeks. Succumbing to defeat meant death and she had come too far for that.

The area was fairly desolate; she hadn't crossed paths with townsfolk for miles. _But perhaps fortune favoured her today_ , she thought as she heard the steady approach of a horse. She looked up to see a giant mare approaching her. The rider wore a leather jerkin, a black velvet doublet and coat of thick fur. His belt held a scabbard that sheathed a long sword and in his left hand he held a long bow. His dark, wavy hair had fallen slightly over one eye, but even through the obstruction she could see the piercing gaze of vivid blue eyes.

Eira stood up, biting back the pain and withstanding the pressure on her foot. It would be foolish to reveal weakness to a complete stranger. She had only survived this long as a lone woman because she was clever and often underestimated, giving her an advantage that she was always quick to make use of. Her shoulders were squared, her head held up in defiance as she clenched the dagger in her pocket tightly.

"Greetings, Ser," she said confidently, not allowing her voice to waiver.

"You are trespassing. These woods and all within it belong to me," he declared as he averted his gaze pointedly to the leather bag which contained the rabbits she had skilfully ensnared.

"You will address me as Lord Bolton," he continued in a lilting tone more gentle than she expected.

Eira furrowed her brow in realization- she knew exactly who this man was. His proclivities were only spoken of in hushed voices far from the ears of strangers whose loyalty you couldn't ensure. But from the tales she had imagined an ugly monster with sallow skin and small dark pebble eyes, not a handsome youth with deep blue pools for eyes, who even beneath the layers and furs you could see was muscular and lean. She couldn't refrain from eyeing him appreciatively, even though every part of her screamed to hold his gaze evenly. She shouldn't show such weakness or superficiality.

"I ought to sling you over the back of my mare and take you back to my castle to be punished for stealing from a highborn lord." His crystal blue eyes sparkled mischievously when he said 'punished'. It didn't conjure images of skin being peeled slowly from her bones, but something infinitely more erotic. As he smirked delightedly, she could tell he was enjoying his position of power and perhaps the sheer luck of finding a new amusement which fell into his lap.

She tightened her grasp on the dagger and wondered whether she should strike while he was unprepared for the assault. But even if she could topple him off his horse and gain the advantage, to what end? She would be hunted down as a murderous, thieving lowborn girl by the might of the Bolton force. She would still be injured and without shelter in the savage woods.

"You can have the rabbits I poached from your land but let me be on my way." She was careful to avoid words which made it sound like a plea. Throwing herself at his mercy would weaken her in his eyes but she couldn't afford outright insubordination. It was a dangerous game to play.

"How far do you think you will get on that injured foot?" he laughed.

She groaned inwardly. He had noticed that her ankle was threatening to buckle under her weight.

"The concern is appreciated Lord Bolton, but I'll manage just fine."

"Please, call me Ramsay..." he trailed off, awaiting her introduction.

"Eira."

"A beautiful name for a Northern girl," he replied.

She felt ashamed at the red glow which flushed her cheeks at the compliment. A sensation was spooling deep in her belly which she could only identify as longing. She wondered what his body would feel like pressed against her own delicate frame. But she hadn't lost all reason, entrusting her life to a notoriously cruel lord was complete madness.

He held out his hand to help her up onto the horse and by the look he gave her she knew better than to make any further protest. If she declined, she had no chance of survival; it was wiser to bide her time and plan an escape when she had a better opportunity. Eira wrapped her legs tightly about the horse as Ramsay sat behind her, placing his arms firmly around her waist as he held the reins. He spurred the mare into a fast gallop and she felt alive as the biting wind lashed at her face, enjoying herself despite her reservations.

The light had faded entirely and Ramsay slowed the horse to a steady trot. He held the reins with one hand and used the other to gently trace lines over what little skin was exposed outside the thick layers of rough-spun wool and fur. He smelt faintly of wine spiced with cloves and nutmeg, boiled leather and crisp pine leaves.

"A girl is meant to ride side-saddle, Eira. It is considered immodest for a maiden to have something between her legs before she is wed," Ramsay whispered in a low voice as his hand found her breast which he roughly fondled above her coat.

Eira exhaled sharply, undeniably aroused in spite of herself. She wondered whether her maidenhead would be taken in his unholy castle, a place the gods had long-abandoned. She wondered whether she might enjoy it and what he might do with her once he had taken his pleasure. She had never been kissed or touched intimately and she couldn't recall the last time she had been embraced or pecked tenderly on the cheek. Her kin were long-dead. The small cottage she had inherited with livestock and a modest garden had been little comfort to a girl left orphaned. _Perhaps I should have been more content with it though_ , she thought with regret, rather than abandoning it for the promise of adventure and Southern warmth.

He skilfully unbuttoned her coat with one hand and unwound the tight layers beneath the cloak. He ripped off her undergarment roughly, exposing her breasts to the cold night air, making her nipples grow into hardened peaks. She trembled with both anticipation and anxiety as he rubbed his fingers lightly over the areolas and kneaded the soft mounds gently. His warm hands felt like fire lashing against her icy skin.

As he toyed with her, she couldn't help but omit a small girlish squeak. Her breath had slowed into a steady pant and she felt a strange dampness between her legs at the sensuous touch. The rhythmic movement in her nether regions felt delicious, acquiring a forbidden quality to it after his vulgar taunt about the appropriateness of it. Ramsay didn't utter a word as he continued to absent-mindedly squeeze, press and pinch her sensitive nipples pausing only to slap at her breasts lightly. It felt as though something unspeakable was on the horizon, but just out of reach. Something was missing from the damp throbbing spot between her legs. _There wasn't enough friction_ , she thought dejectedly.

Ramsay leaned in and tenderly kissed the flesh on her slender neck. He ran little rivulets with his tongue and pressed his hot mouth roughly against her frigid skin. When he bit down hard she cried out in shock.

"You are a very _wicked_ girl, Eira," he murmured.

"Good girls cry and plead. What I hunt in these woods is a different kind of animal and they rightly fear their lord," he continued.

This was her opportunity. He was distracted and unguarded. She could feel his hardness pressing into her back as he cruelly whispered in her ear, his hot breath tickling her ear. Eira turned and gave him a hard shove in one rapid movement. Ramsay fell off the horse in a heap and she kicked the animal to spur it into a canter. Attraction or not, she had decided to chance the woods rather than be taken back to his castle. Not there.

She couldn't resist looking back at the expression on his face, feeling like the fabled Vaenys who had been transformed into a pillar of salt when she turned to view the Doom of Valyria. She had imagined it clouded with anger and fury, ready to try shooting her down with his arrows in the quiver. But instead she saw the hint of that smirk, with eyes that sparkled in admiration. She was not going to bore him like the others before her.

She rode the horse furiously into the dark horizon and tried to plan her next move. She was nearing the Dreadfort. She couldn't go back; the Weeping Water was perilous at night. She was likely to slip into the dark depths and drown in the freezing water. She couldn't go into the forest; the horse was likely to lose footing and bolt. She couldn't go to the castle...

The whizz of an arrow interrupted her frantic thoughts and the horse let out a panic-stricken neigh. Time slowed down as she slipped from the saddle, the horse collapsing in a great heap. Gravity took over as she bounced and rolled away from the mare, she was grateful she wasn't pinned beneath or kicked unconscious. The ground was soft and muddy, enveloping her body in mire, her head throbbing in pain and everything whirling in dizzy circles as she heard the approach of boots rustling in the grass.

"I would have had you flayed raw if that had been my red stallion, Blood," said Ramsay evenly, with a look of bemusement as he extended a hand for her to latch onto once more.

Eira clutched at his broad shoulders and leaned into his body lest she fall back down. In a swift flourish, he scooped her up into his arms and held her little frame close to his body as he carried her into the distance towards the castle. She felt twelve again- like a small, foolish child who had been scolded by her father for scaling a tree from which she couldn't climb down.

The rest was all a blur as he took her up to his chambers and laid her muddy, bruised body on his bed, dismissing his servants and guards. She quickly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, exhausted both mentally and physically.

* * *

Eira woke groggily, the room slowly coming into focus. The bed was an expansive black, its four cast-iron posters framed with curtains of parted red silk. The rest of the furniture was comprised of a writing desk peppered with pots of ink and feather quills, a leather upholstered chair and an intricately carved wardrobe. A bearskin rug was placed over the stone floor and a few tapestries decorated the walls. They were quite horrific- mouths hung open in wide screams and flayed, decapitated bodies on burning crosses adorned the textiles. They made her shiver uncomfortably.

A figure beside her moaned and stirred beneath the furs. Ramsay rolled over and pulled her on top of him effortlessly. She was still wearing her soiled, ripped clothes and the dried blood on her face had crusted into streaks over her face and arms. Her ankle throbbed painfully- a sharp reminder of her ill-fated night. Ramsay was as naked as his nameday, his body as hard and pale as white marble. His muscular chest was etched deep with long scars that cut into the hard lines of his abdomen. She couldn't tell if they were from battle or the bedroom. The bedding was bunched around his lower body and she flushed with shame when she realized that she wanted to inspect him further. He looked like a demi-god with his pale skin, eyes of blue ice and dark hair that was ruffled from tossing and turning in the featherbed.

Eira had never seen a man naked. As an only child and a loner, she had never bathed with siblings or friends. Innocent exploration of adolescence had been superseded by the cold reality of supporting herself from a relatively young age. On an intellectual level she knew the mechanics of lovemaking, how women made squalling babes and what laid between a man's legs. But she had never seen it laid out before her.

"I don't think you deserve to have a nice hot bath, Eira. I extended to you the offer of hospitality after you poached from me and you returned my benevolence by stealing my horse and causing its death. The mare was shot down by my arrows. I might prefer you to stay in these filthy rags and be my dirty penitent while you learn your lesson," he mumbled somewhat sleepily in a low menacing growl as he eyed her disheveled appearance.

"I'm getting blood and dirt on your bedding, Ramsay," she blurted out, embarrassed.

"You're so precious. Worried more about your lord's sheets than what I intend on doing with you," he laughed merrily, pleased with her dismay.

"I've heard of your amusements, Ramsay. A girl would be mad to not fear the castle the townsfolk would only dare jape about in Southern inns," she replied matter-of-factly.

"You desire me more than you fear me, blushing that way like a maid. When was the last time such heat touched that icy little face of yours?" he murmured, stroking her face softly.

He rocked against her, pressing firmly against her sex as she straddled him. The pressure caused a little moan to escape her lips as she instinctively met his thrusts. The spot between her legs grew damp once more- the same familiar feeling that had stirred when they were riding and he had played with her breasts and suckled on her neck. His member was growing hard and she could feel it pressing teasingly against her, only a thin cotton sheet and her clothes separating them.

"Take off your clothes, Eira."

She started to remove the layers, lifting herself off him and cowering on the other side of the bed trying to comply modestly but he grabbed her with a firm hand- "Not in my bed. Stand in the middle of the floor and face me."

She inhaled slowly, trying to compose herself. Taking off her furs, rough-spun wool and finally her thin cotton smallclothes, she met his lidded gaze confidently despite the urge to use her hands to shield her mound and flat belly. Her breasts were covered by her long, dark ebony hair which she ruefully thought were inadequately small. She wasn't curvy and voluptuous like the bed-warmers men typically desired. She had an elongated and girlish frame, standing almost at equal height to Ramsay himself.

"Come back up on the bed and get on all fours."

When she complied and saw him drop to his knees behind her she bit her lip in anticipation of the sharp, sudden intrusion into her virgin cunt, her maidenhead to be broken in one violent thrust. But instead she felt a strong hand come crashing down on her rounded bottom. He continued to spank mercilessly with a steady rhythm as she clenched down hard on the bed sheets in a desperate attempt to lessen the pain. She refused to whimper or cry out, even when, in-between the smacks, he grabbed handfuls of reddened flesh which he kneaded roughly.

"Have you learnt your lesson, Eira? Are you going to be a good girl for me?" he demanded, without stopping his assault.

"Yes... Ramsay... I swear it" she raggedly gasped out in punctured breaths.

"Convince me," he replied.

The swats echoed on the chamber walls and her lithe body jerked under the force of his blows. She gave into him and let herself go. All the pent-up emotion that she held at bay unravelled itself in this cruel, beautiful Lord's bed. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she thought of all the sights, smells and tastes she had conjured in her fantasies that she would never get to see without freedom. The blood orange groves of Dorne, Myrish firewine and the temples of Volantis. She thought of her dead parents and the candles she had lit faithfully in the Godswood. Her chest rose and fell as she took in gulps of air greedily. The sobs felt cathartic and purifying, washing away all the pain.

He took her in his arms, the tears had moistened the dried muck on her face and little droplets spilt murky, red pools on the bed. " _Shhhhh_ ," he soothed calmly, stroking her raven hair as he laid her out on his lap. He kept stroking her gently, tracing soft lines in her skin. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear, placating her like a small injured pet. He kissed her all over, licking the blood off her face and pressing his warm lips against her wet cheek- her taste like copper and salt. Ramsay leaned in and brushed his lips with hers. He clutched her hand and pulled her closer to him as he crashed his mouth upon hers. She could feel the warmth of his skin and his muscular body pressed intimately against her own. She began to match his pace and kissed back with more fervour. She parted her lips and he sucked gently on the lower, probing her mouth with his tongue and snaking it inside. He tasted of rich blackberry wine, cloves and honey- an intoxicating combination.

He continued to ravage her mouth and thrust his tongue deep into her own. She briefly tried to wrestle for dominance and push back, but she soon submitted to his ruthless, demanding mouth. Eira ran her hands lustfully over his hard muscles and thumbed the scars which marred his chest. They kissed as though they were starving- forceful and unquenched.

* * *

That was the last night she saw Ramsay. He had sent her to the kitchens shortly after the kiss to work washing dishes and preparing small simple meals for the serving girls. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but it wasn't anything to complain about in light of what he could have done to her. _Though tending to her own gardens and livestock had surely offered more independence_ , she thought ruefully. She had even less sunshine here than she had before in her isolated cottage. Her dreams of escaping to Dorne and the Summer Isles where she could thaw her Northern blood seemed like a foolish girl's dream, far out of reach and immaterial. She was always watched carefully and rarely spoken to, but she liked it that way. She was never touched by the men or even subjected to flirtation or innuendo, perhaps Ramsay had threatened to have them flayed otherwise.

Eira slept in private quarters off the kitchen, guarded by faceless, armoured men who peered watchfully out of their midnight black helms. Ramsay had stayed true to his threat and she hadn't been permitted to bathe since that fateful night that she met him in the twilight. She tried to make the best of it, even when she grew self-conscious as the other servants began to wrinkle their noses, not straying within arm's reach of her. She told herself that it was surely better than when she had bathed in the hot springs in the wild. There, lifting her naked body out of the temperate water into the frigid air almost sent her into shock.

* * *

Ramsay felt unnerved. A new sensation that he couldn't identify filled him with discomfort. What had occurred on the night he met the little Northern girl Eira had rattled him. He had never comforted someone in his arms like that unless it was a part of a greater scheme to unhinge the ignorant creature further, to gain their trust before hurting them more so he could watch the light in their eyes go out as they realized there was no end to his games. It was delightful and the only real pleasure he had ever known deep in his core. It was better than sex. Sex felt good- but it was like relieving oneself; it had no true dimension other than to perform a bodily function which was only sweetened if he could use it to manipulate or degrade.

He didn't know what was different with this girl and he would rather have her out of his sight so he didn't have to think about it too deeply. She was unremarkable in many ways. Pretty yes, and with a certain spirit- but nothing earth-shattering. Nothing he couldn't seek out if he cared to. Maybe it was because she truly desired him. He was attractive physically to maids, but their base fear of him took over in many ways. It was a primitive, primal response to monsters such as himself. Eira had never shuddered with repulsion and terror in that same way. He had never been kissed like that, with overwhelming need and a want to have him inhabit every part of her body. It fulfilled a narcissism that had laid dormant until now.

So he preoccupied himself with his little amusements as his father called them. He kept her safely in his possession- he didn't want to release her but he didn't call on her either. He didn't feel the usual perverse enjoyment at the prospect of hurting and defiling this innocent. Not if it meant he took her in his arms afterwards and petted her like a weak, repentant sinner. Would he for the first time feel a twinge of remorse if he tore the skin from her pretty body? He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer or face the last fragment of his humanity, as small of a sliver as it was.

* * *

Eira was chopping vegetables in the kitchen when she was commanded to take a plate of breakfast to Lord Bolton's room by the aging matron of the kitchen. Her face was round and plump and she had long hair with silvered streaks that ran down her back. But she had a hardness to her close-set eyes which resembled dirty chips of obsidian.

"It is Abbey's task but she's caught a fever and the other girls have already scurried out to serve at the dais," she sighed contemptuously.

Eira took the wooden plate of blood sausage, buttered herb encrusted mushrooms, fried eggs cooked with onions and fiery Dornish peppers through the halls. The smell made her stomach grumble and howl with hunger as she lightly pattered along the dark passages. Her ankle still twitched slightly in discomfort. When she eventually reached his chamber after making a few wrong turns, the door was opened after a few knocks by a startled Ramsay. After the moment of initial shock by her unexpected intrusion into his quarters passed, his eyes flickered with a red-hot rage.

"Those incompetent cunts were told to keep you in the fucking kitchens," he screamed as he launched into an angry tirade, his words peppered with curses and threats. He took her by the arm and dragged her in the room like a ragdoll, the plate of food clattering to the floor in a greasy discarded pile. He flung her on to the floor and she fell against the stone cobble in a crumpled heap.

"When was the last time you bathed, Eira? You _reek_. You're wearing those same filthy rags. Have you been touching food with those hands?" he demanded, surveying her like an enraged bull ready to charge.

"You haven't given them leave to have me bathed, milord," she whispered up softly from the floor. Her stubborn little face jutting out determinedly despite her low tone.

He didn't respond and his face was unreadable as he scooped her up and took her to an adjacent room that had an oversized claw-foot tub in the centre and a fireplace crackling in the corner. The air was thick and warm with steam that rose languidly from the scalding water. Her nose tickled at the scent of fragrant lily and rosewater. It had been prepared earlier for his morning bath, she thought idly, her nose tickling at the sweet, aromatic smells. She had never laid eyes on such a splendid, ornate room. The walls were decorated with rich tapestries of bathing water nymphs in gold gilded frames with delicate filigree.

He stripped her off and eased her into the bath, she felt all the muscles in her body relax into the water. He picked up a washcloth and ran it over her, thoroughly scrubbing some areas and gently gliding it over others. Ramsay massaged her head and poured sweet oils from a glass flute bottle into her hair, washing it carefully. She moaned as his fingers descended from her head further down her neck, finally reaching their intended destination at her small breasts. He tugged at her round pebbled nipples and kept his other hand roaming freely. When he reached her sex he parted her folds gently and swirled little circles around her sensitive nub. His fingers teased her entrance without penetrating her. Eira moaned lowly and arched her back, causing some of the water to splash out of the overfilled tub.

Ramsay laughed delightedly at how sensitive she was. He lowered himself into the tub beside her and lifted her light frame onto him. Her skin was flushed and hot from the water, her lips scarlet and slightly parted. She noticed that he had grown hard and she experimentally took his long, wide girth in her small delicate hand. She couldn't bite back the small nervous giggle that escaped her lips as she held it unsure of what to do with it next or how hard to grasp. Ramsay looked at her, thoroughly amused by her virginal demeanour.

"My sweet maid," he whispered against her neck before nipping it with his teeth. Not enough to leave marks but hard enough to make her cry out. He stood up in the bath and lifted himself out, sprawling next to the fireplace to dry on a large, soft rug. She followed demurely, the gentle patter of her feet leaving pools of water in her wake.

"Lay down, Eira," he commanded gently. All his rage from earlier dissipated by blind lust.

As she complied, he parted her legs and bent her knees so he was at the right angle to lean in closely to her sex. She could feel his hot breath against her tender flesh and she tried to close her legs tightly as she felt herself grow wet and damp. She didn't know what this sensation meant and her cheeks flushed red in shame as she felt something starting to trickle down her thighs.

"Open up for me, Eira," he requested coolly and swatted playfully at her thighs.

His tongue lapped the juices from her thighs and cunt as he chuckled and chided her for being so needy and wet. Although it pleased him immensely he couldn't resist the urge to tease and humiliate her. He parted her folds with his tongue and traced patterns into her glistening lips before probing her entrance and thrusting it inside her. He fucked her with his tongue roughly until she whined and pleaded.

"Ramsay, please," she begged, unsure of what exactly she was asking for. All she knew was the desperate emptiness between her thighs that cried out to be filled, wanting release. A microcosmic crescendo on the brink of release.

Obliging her, he positioned his cock at her entrance and drove it into her sex in one quick thrust. She expected pain as he took her virginity, but she cried out in pleasure and grew accustomed to his girth quickly. He started out slowly, pushing his cock in deeply before withdrawing it slowly. His cock gleaned luridly with the ruby blood of her maidenhead.

She grew restless and bucked up wantonly against him, trying to get him to quicken his pace. He laughed and complied—pounding into her in a steady rhythm with abandon. She mewled and whimpered beneath him like a kitten. Her body was flushed and blotchy with patches of scarlet. She was unbearably tight and so wet that her cum had begun to saturate his legs.

"Seven hells, we will both be soaked, you filthy girl. Is this how you repay me for getting you clean?" he chuckled hotly in her ear.

She reddened with embarrassment and bit down hard into his neck in response. She clawed at his back and slapped his face and cruel mouth that bullied her. The blows reverberated on the walls. The more nonchalant he was about her slaps and her scratching that was hard enough to leave bloody streaks on his back, the angrier she got and the harder she hit. Instead of being enraged, he only laughed and slowed to an achingly teasing pace, leaving her to writhe helplessly against him in an attempt to increase the pressure, desperate for her release.

"You haven't earned an orgasm, Eira." And with that, he withdrew entirely, his wet cock slipping out with an obscene squelch. He knelt before her and finished himself off with his hand, spurting ropes of white over her pale skin as he came with a growl.

"Lick it up" he ordered.

She scooped up what she could with her dexterous fingers and licked the slightly bitter fluid curiously. The rest she rubbed into her skin which seemed to appease him greatly. He crashed his lips on to hers in a passionate kiss and dipped his tongue deep into her mouth, tasting himself on her. He felt sated and euphoric, completely entranced by his new favourite toy.

He couldn't think of why he wanted her out of his grasp to begin with. Surely she belonged here by his side. He couldn't tell at any moment if she was going to hit him or obey his orders like a good girl and it excited him. She might even try to escape or strangle him in the heat of passion and he would relish dealing out her punishments.

* * *

The days blurred into each other as Eira and Ramsay retreated into a world of their own private sexual games in their chambers. Ramsay only left to attend to his bitches in the kennel or to hunt in the woods for boar on Blood. He only attended feasts in the long hall of the keep when his father threatened him into compliance. He preferred to eat with Eira who had only grown wilder with the passing weeks, much to Ramsay's delight. She would placate him with her submission at times but she was also prone to tempestuous bouts of violence. She would throw her plate of food at him, demanding to be released or strike him in the face when he came inside her. He would respond by chaining her high up on the wall or something more degrading depending on his mood. He would stroke her softly afterwards and tend to her like a Maester with his skilful fingers- rubbing in balms and lotions or massaging her aching muscles.

He didn't believe she was being completely honest with herself when she screamed to be let free. She had never sought to escape and her violence towards him seemed more like a demonstration of her power and frustration than a serious attempt to cause him harm. He was never concerned giving her sharp utensils to eat with or a long razor to shave him clean. She melted under his touch and he would sometimes wake to gentle kisses being laid upon his bruised skin. He would keep his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep lest she stop. They were content even though neither of them would ever care to admit it.

Although the dark sadistic urges that bubbled beneath the surface had retreated into the dark womb of his chambers, the perverse microcosm didn't fill his appetite. He wondered how complicit he could make her in his acts of violence. He wondered if she would hunt alongside him for women and hand him a flaying knife when he wanted to make his enemies scream for mercy before they begged him to remove an appendage.

It was snowing outside when he first asked her if she loved him. The snowflakes were falling in a harmonious blanket, drifting occasionally to the stained glass window of their tower and smacking against it, melting and trickling down like tears.

"You don't know what that word means, Ramsay," she replied almost sadly, looking out of the brightly coloured panes into the distance.

"Don't play games with me, Eira."

"I thought you liked them."

"Not with you. I sometimes think about them though. I wonder whether I could make you fear me or whether you would have that stubborn little lilt of your chin even if I peeled the skin from your little finger. Whether your eyes would pierce through me till your dying breath," he confided in spite of himself. He felt vulnerable, despite the fact he was only asking her about her devotion to him because he wanted to use it as leverage to manipulate her.

"Fear isn't the same thing as respect. That's what you've always wanted, isn't it? Respect from Daddy who never loved you enough? We both know you are no Lord Bolton in title but a poor bas-"

He cut her off before she could speak the word.

She didn't know what had possessed her to goad him like that. An idle boredom had begun to take hold. Perhaps it was simply for a reaction. In Karhold she had run her own household- gathering eggs, feeding geese, sweeping the hearth and other domestic chores. After she had left, the practicalities of surviving on her own in the wild had taken all of her energy. But now she was waited on- she didn't even have to dress herself. She wasn't allowed wander the grounds on her own, let alone leave his chamber. Her world had grown smaller and smaller until it threatened to implode.

"The last person who called me that had their tongue removed. Yours pleases me far too much to part with. You've languished for too long in my bed, you need fresh air to breathe. Your insolence is born from boredom. I, too, know that restless itch... So I'm going to take you on a hunt by my side. It's an honour I have never shared with a woman," he whispered conspiratorially.

She didn't like the look of childish glee that spread over his face. She felt as though she had been played.


	2. The Hunt

_A huge thank you to spacehurps for beta'ing this chapter, I'm eternally grateful!_

 **Chapter 2: The Hunt**

It was a frigid morning, the kind that knocked the air out of your lungs when you inhaled. The pine needles in the forest were powdered with crystals of ice that glimmered enchantingly upon the tepid sepia beams of light piercing through the canopy of trees. Though a white raven had not yet arrived from the Citadel marking the official change of season, the long 10 year summer had surely departed. Winter was on their doorstep. The dappled mare Eira rode, flanked by Ramsay on Blood, seemed to sense her apprehension- twitching her ears and pinning them back tensely as her hooves plodded along the white blanket of frost. She should have felt relaxed roaming in the archaic woods- an orchestra of birds were pleasantly chirping secret songs in the damp air that smelt of rotting wood and wild mint. But the harmonious melody was punctured by a scream so shrill that it made her head throb.

A shock of vivid hair in thorny brambles caught Eira's attention, and it was then she realised who the scream belonged to. Her stomach plummeted as she thought of Poppy- the girl who had been kissed by fire, as Wildlings would phrase it. She had a kind face framed by her unmistakable hair and a light smattering of freckles that decorated her delicate nose. The auburn curls tumbled down her back in tightly wound ringlets and bounced prettily on her shapely waist. Poppy was never short of attention from the squires; her comely features and voluptuous curves made men desire her and girls envious. Eira fondly remembered the silvery falsetto of her voice that often rang through the halls when she shamelessly flirted with one of her many suitors. Her kind eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed encouragingly at one of their bad japes, her whole face animated and ardent. Eira had admired how easily she seemed to inhabit her body; she had never possessed that kind of confidence.

It was in the busy din of the Dreadfort kitchens they had met. Though they had never spoken, Eira had always quietly enjoyed listening to the hymns she murmured when chopping vegetables by the iron cauldron swinging precariously over the stone fireplace. Her voice dripped of honey and even the hardened matron would break into a reluctant smile when she sang. It was one of the few reprieves from the otherwise solemn castle. The place hadn't broken her sweetness.

Poppy had often waxed poetic about gallant knights and their fair ladies. Eira had found it terribly amusing. To think that a woman recently flowered with a head full of romance existed in a place like this was absurd. But now she found it tragic. _She had probably picked wildflowers in these woods as a child, weaving them into crowns of coldsnaps and pennyroyal_ , Eira thought to herself sadly.

Eira wondered if Ramsay had known her prior to the hunt. Had she been plucked by ill fated whim in the spring of her youth by sadistic desire, or was it retribution for wrongdoing? It seemed plausible that it was a cruel punishment dealt by a notoriously severe house. Ramsay had only explained the game vaguely- telling her that he had released their prey at nightfall to give the creature a head-start before the hunt started on the morrow. It wasn't until Eira had heard the incessant shrieking that she realised their quarry was human. Though he had alluded to it when they first met, declaring that " _what I hunt in these woods is a different kind of animal_ ," she truthfully hadn't given the phrase that much thought.

Had Poppy run herself in frantic circles throughout the bitterly cold night, or had she believed that she had an advantage and taken her time to rest and conserve her energy? _When had she started to scream_? she thought with an involuntary shudder.

Ramsay broke their long silence by gesturing to the eight half feral beasts that were trailing behind them, firing off their names; "Grey Jeyne, Helicent, Jez, Alison, Maude, Red Jeyne, Sara and Willow," he said, "for the girls who gave me the best sport." The hounds' ears perked up at his voice, sniffing and snapping impatiently for their master's command. They were hungry. Drool slobbered down their vicious teeth and pooled in the loose folds of their chins.

Eira wasn't sure whether he was simply trying to shock her and elicit a reaction, or whether it was true. Though at his point she wouldn't put anything past him. Instead of replying, she cocked her eyebrow and busied her nervous fingers by smoothing the bouffant layers of tulle and silk on her black gown. The ruby and garnets encrusted in the rich velvet bodice glinted splendidly in the dappled golden light, refracting dancing baubles on the bark of the trees. It was hard to breathe in the lavish dress; the corset pressed uncomfortably into her ribs, making her chest rise and fall laboriously. Though she had pleaded in their chambers for a simple tunic and leather for the ride, protesting the wildly inappropriate attire that was held up by a trembling maid who wouldn't meet her eye- Ramsay wouldn't relent. He refused to hear another word from her and dismissed the servants who scurried away dutifully like obedient mice.

He had laced up her corset with dexterous, slender fingers, pausing briefly to touch her ivory skin with a tenderness that was afforded to the handling of priceless objects. It was as if he had wanted to savour the sight himself, the potency diluted if beheld in the eyes of others. When he gently dabbed a gloss of beeswax and red vermilion pigment on her lips, she had sucked his digit into her mouth teasingly- hoping to distract him from the ominous hunt. Anything Ramsay was this excited about was bound to be perverse in nature. But he had not been swayed from the task, continuing to preen her like his own personal poppet doll- brushing her dark tendrils affectionately with a coarse horse hair brush. She felt as though she was being prepared for a funeral rite, in black drapery and elegant finery unfitting of her station.

"What did she do to deserve this, Ramsay?" Eira asked softly.

"This isn't happening for a reason. Well, one reason. I enjoy it," he said with an exclamation that seemed to her more performance than admittance.

"If I rode away right now, are you presumptuous enough to think you could catch me?"

"I'll make you a deal. On my honour as a Bolton, if you can beat me out of the woods I will spare her life and I won't pursue you any further."

For the first time Eira gave proper consideration to her relationship with the bastard. She hadn't attempted escape, and when she had screamed to be released it was to demonstrate agency. Her borderline childish tantrums were to display that she wasn't afraid of him nor his punishments- which to her were always more erotic than excruciating. He could have had her tongue or peeled the skin off her legs from heel to thigh, but instead he gave her pleasure. When they laid together it ignited fire in her core; it felt right no matter how sick and wrong the choice of man was.

But she was intelligent enough to know that they couldn't isolate themselves into a world subject to their own rules or Ramsay's whims forever. He was accountable to his father- Roose Bolton. She had no future with Ramsay- bastard or not, he would still be wed to someone that would raise his station with an alliance, not lower it with a marriage to a common girl. When that day came she would be disposed of by the new household; a mistress was competition for a new bride. That was assuming he hadn't tired of her himself sooner. While he had never caused her harm that she hadn't consented to, she couldn't count on this consistency. He cared for her on some level, in the best way he could. But he was a very damaged person. She couldn't stagnate at the Dreadfort and hibernate in the harsh North. She needed heat on her skin and clouds above her head.

Without further thought, Eira tore haphazardly at her gown and removed some of the heavy layering, leaving her in a soft linen tunic and smallclothes. She gave no thought to the risk of frostbite as her bare legs gripped the mare tightly; being able to breathe and move freely was foremost in her mind. Giving the horse a firm squeeze to prompt into a faster gait, she carefully surveyed the forest for the best route through the maze of pines and foliage. The mare gradually reached a full gallop, speeding through the trees which whirred past her in a blur of green. _If I look back, I'm lost._

Eira panted and greedily gulped for air as the horse slowed, nearing exhaustion. She had out manoeuvred Ramsay miles back, cunningly darting and weaving through the trees with better precision. The pines were thinning out and she could see a clearing ahead, an expansive green bathed in pale sunlight. With her last ounce of her energy, she rode into the glades giddily. Though Blood was faster and Ramsay was better acquainted with the woods, she had made it out. A proud smile spread over her face as she savoured her moment of victory.

An imposing sentinel tree stood proudly in the centre of the field, reaching up high in the sky with a thick trunk that was armoured in grey green needles. Her legs felt like heavy, stiff logs and she looked to the tree longingly, thinking that the blanket of moss which covered the base would make a perfect earthy pillow for one's head. Curling up into a tight ball to retain what little warmth she could, and resting to recuperate for the long journey ahead, seemed inviting. She would seek out the river to draw water and quench her thirst when she awakened.

Eira dismounted the mare and slumped against the bark, falling surprisingly quickly into a sleep that was disturbed with nightmares of shadows with teeth and snarling dogs with sad human eyes.

The feeling of air being forced out of her lungs startled Eira awake. A searing white hot pain shot through her sternum and she rasped frantically as she opened her eyes. Though she was shivering violently, sweat was beading at the nape of her neck. Ramsay was towering over her, his hunting clothes spattered in fresh blood and viscera. She sobered up quickly from the haze of sleep at the imposing sight of him.

"I made... it out," she screamed in a broken cry, her eyes widening in confusion and shock."What did Poppy ever do to you?" She pummelled her fists against him furiously as she lost control, feeling her earlier mask of neutrality finally crumble in a red cloud of pain and anguish. Her knuckles ached, connecting to his muscular chest with dull thumps.

"Yes, you won, but you forgot to ask one question. You forgot to ask whether I'm a _liar_." His hot breath tickled her ear as he leaned in intimately. "My honour as a _Bolton_. What was it that you said to me in the castle?"

"Are you trying to punish me for it? She had a beautiful voice and a soft heart. You hunted her down with your bitches like a wild fucking animal. WHAT IS YOUR CHILDHOOD TRAUMA, RAMSAY?" Eira slapped him across the face with such force that her palm stung and bloomed scarlet. She continued to buck and kick against him until she went limp, utterly spent. He hunched over her, motionless, absorbing the blows with quiet, angry eyes.

Ramsay tore at what remained of her attire and ripped the strand of freshwater pearls from her dainty throat, scattering the precious spheres over the forest tinder. She looked fragile, exposed in the gauzy, sheer layers of her smallclothes which were trimmed with delicate snowflakes of Myrish lace. He wanted to make her feel vulnerable by exposing her further to the unyielding elements, though there was nothing particularly sexual in nature to the gesture.

"I was going to make you watch as my hounds devoured the flesh from her face. You should be grateful I let you amuse yourself by running in silly little circles instead," he taunted as he eyed her gooseprickled body. "I love seeing you like this, clawing at me like a rabid she wolf. You enjoy inflicting pain too," he continued in a low timbre. The old bruises that mottled his neck started at her accusingly.

"I'm nothing like you, Ramsay."

He smiled knowingly, an intimate reproach that said more than a reply would.

Diverting the line of conversation, he declared, "Your riding impressed me. I think you deserve a treat for winning our little wager. I will give you the privilege of selecting the next guest of honour for the hunt. Perhaps a wicked poisonous flower would be more palatable to you than the sweetling Poppy was."

He looked thoroughly delighted as her face clouded over. "I will hunt, whether you are dead in the ground with eyes frozen shut or you have run off to beg in some hot, heathen city across the Narrow Sea where they worship cats. In the meantime, you will ride by my side. You are _mine_."

He shrouded her in his thickly lined fur coat emblazoned with the sigil of the flayed man; the gesture seemed a symbol. It reminded her of the cloaking tradition during a wedding ceremony. With a swift movement, he slung her over the back of Blood and rode furiously into the forest, leaving her mare to find its own way back to the castle stables.

* * *

An exotic aroma of fresh honey cakes, citrus fruits and lemon tea greeted Eira when they arrived back at their chambers. She had never tasted an orange or lemon- they didn't grow this far North, thriving only in warmer climates. They were reserved for the highborn who could afford the expense of having them shipped from King's Landing. With slight hesitation, she plucked a tangerine wedge from the wooden platter that sat atop the featherbed. The tangy, succulent juice from the brightly coloured fruit burst deliciously onto her tongue.

Trying to avoid Ramsay's eye, she crawled beneath the thick blankets of animal pelt, yawning lazily and arching her back as she stretched out her willowy arms. The day had faded into darkness and the chamber was lit by tall pillars of beeswax candles. They cast inky silhouettes on the walls and bathed the bed in a warm, inviting glow. The hunt felt distant; it was as though she had awoken from a strange and terrible dream. Outside, the moon hung in a sharp crescent sliver, the night bringing with it a kind of completeness that washed away the memories of the day. She felt woozy, as though she had been drugged.

Ramsay stripped off his shirt, leaving himself clad only in black woollen breeches.

"I'm going to teach you Cyvasse. It's a set imported from Volantis," he said, gesturing to a small, ornate table in the corner of the room. It was chequered with squares that were dotted by ivory and onyx pieces neatly lined up in rows. She hadn't seen this strange, foreign game in the room before. _He must have had it brought in while we were out_ , she thought.

"Where did this come from, Ramsay?" Eira inquired blearily, rubbing her tired eyes and rolling over in the soft featherbed.

"Believe it or not, flayed skin and human bones aren't the only things we amass at the castle. My father is a very rich man," he said with a hint of amusement.

"I didn't know you had interests other than bloodsport and flaying," she replied with an defiant roll of the eyes.

She regretted saying it. It reminded her uncomfortably that what happened earlier was no mere nightmare, though the details were loosely assembled and foggy. She was in shock. For his part, Ramsay seemed almost offended. It was though the suggestion that he was a mere brute was an attack on his intellect and an unwelcome reminder of his bastardy. He was not born among the fine trappings of castle life but to a poor miller.

"Do you think you can manipulate me with lemons and stupid games?" she said hotly. A strong offensive seemed better at this point than backing or breaking down.

"Seven hells, you're a serious little thing." Ramsay shook his head and smirked as he strode decisively toward the bed, the look of vexation dissolved almost as quickly as it had appeared. It was rare for him to emote anything other than smug arrogance and he hated her to see him unguarded.

"If you mock me, Ramsay, I swear by the old gods and the new I will shove those Cyvasse pieces right up your-" He cut her off with a kiss, leaning down and pushing her back hard against the goose down.

Her resolve melted quickly as he pressed his lips hard against her own. How could someone so depraved and childish make her feel such things? If she could lust for someone so cruel, maybe she wasn't as good of a person as she thought. _Perhaps he was right about her._

She deepened the kiss, letting her mind shut off as she drowned in the sensation. Eira had grown confident in the time she had spent in his bed and, despite her frail frame, she was able to flip him onto his back with ease. She sat straddling his taut body, feeling dominant and in control. Running her fingers through his wild muss of dark brown locks and tugging sharply, she got an idea as her gaze turned to the flickering candles next to the bed. She rubbed against him suggestively and leaned over to grasp one, holding it high above his naked torso.

Ramsay hissed as she dripped trails and scalding molten pools down his chest, clenching her waist tightly as she continued to rub against the hardening tent growing in his breeches. As the wax cooled she gently peeled it off, admiring the angry marks that were left. Eira mercifully alleviated the angry burns with gentle kisses that caused him to shudder and arch up against her.

"Have you played like this with other girls?" she asked quietly, immediately regretful over the pathetic show of insecurity and already sure of the answer. The maze of scars over his chest seemed less ambiguous these days.

He tucked a rogue strand of hair that had fallen over her face behind her ear. "You're jealous of ghosts and dead things, Eira. They don't haunt me. Why should they bother you?"

She didn't allow herself to ruminate on his choice of words. Yielding to his demanding mouth and skilful hands, which had found their way to the secret spot between her legs, was more enticing.

After they had lain together, Ramsay fetched her moon tea to drink. He studied her carefully as she drank the foul concoction. It tasted of tansy and wormwood, barely masked by the sweetness of honey and violet. Eira was glad they shared the same views on siring a babe in wedlock. She had too many plans, none of which involved raising a child. She sipped the warm brew slowly, trying to mull over the ominous command to select the next victim of his hunting game. Even the pleasant afterglow of pleasure couldn't keep this one detail far from her mind.

Eira didn't think there was a sole person in Westeros that deserved to die an agonising death at the incisors of his hell hounds. The thought of it made bile rise in her throat. However, she could see the value in selecting someone the world was better off without- if he forced her hand. Perhaps a more noble girl would take a knife and slit his throat while he slept, or in the least climb from the tower and leave the place behind. The Dreadfort was full of blood and pain. Enabling his acts of depravity was certainly _wrong_. But she had watched so many people that she loved die and she felt as though she had earned a small measure of pleasure. _The Gods have never shown me favour. Why should I be pious?_

As the days passed, Eira felt unnerved as she viewed people with new eyes. She wondered whether they were bad. Truly bad. Whether they also upheld the traditions of House Bolton. Eira made it her task to encourage the servants to gossip with her while Ramsay was preoccupied elsewhere. She traded trinkets and silver for secrets- the most valuable commerce in the kingdom. The stories she was told were a window to the world outside her chamber. A place she had started to forget.

There was talk that one of the serving girls, Abbey, bathed in the fresh blood of flayed women in the dungeons to keep her face youthful. Rumour also had it that the matron of the kitchens tortured the young, pretty maids who crossed her. This Eira didn't disbelieve- she herself had witnessed her press soft hands onto searing hot pans when they languished in a task or displeased her. She herself had fortunately escaped such wrath- no doubt the looming guards that Ramsay had ordered to watch her were responsible for that.

Ramsay never gave her a specific time-frame in which she had to select the girl to be hunted. He had never even specified that it must be a woman, though she didn't think she would risk his violent anger on a technicality. In fact, he never bought it up at all, to her surprise. She had thought he would hold it over her head and make ominous remarks to provoke her. But they settled back into their routine, as if the hunt or the following ultimatum had never happened. Eira found it surprisingly easy to edge it all out of her head a little more with each passing day.

She soon forgot to continue probing the servants for morsels of information.

* * *

A few moons later on a freezing morning, Ramsay rushed into the chambers with proud excitement animating his handsome face. Such a look was unfamiliar to her and made him look all the more attractive. This moment in time proved to be the linchpin that disrupted the tenuous equilibrium they had found together.

"My father has named me Castellan of the Dreadfort while he rides South to fight in the War of the Five Kings. He is bannerman to the Starks, who have crowned Robb as the King in the North."

Some of the words were unfamiliar to her. While her mother had seen to it that as a child she was more educated than the typical commoner, she hadn't kept up to date with Westerosi politics. What was a new king or lord to the lowborn so long as they could till their field unmolested? War only affected them when it was on their doorstep or when it was mandated to send their strapping lads South to fight. The North had been undisturbed for a very long time due to its remoteness, and Eira had only ever heard of one king, not _five_.

"I'm happy for you, milord," she said respectfully.

"I'll have more matters that will require my attention. I've arranged for you to be taught basic literacy- how to read and write. You will assist Maester Wolkan and help with the ravens."

Eira was taken aback; she hadn't expected him to take her into consideration like this.

"I''ll have Abbey show you where the rookery and Wolkan's turret are," he said with an unreadable look in his eye.

Her blood ran cold at the name.

"Oh and Eira, I haven't forgotten about the next hunt; I expect a name by the next moon. You'll be able to write it down for me," he said. The corners of his mouth edging into a satisfied smile.


	3. The Blood Bath

_The leeches suck away the bad blood, all the rage and pain. No man can think so full of anger. Ramsay, though … his tainted blood would poison even leeches, I fear._

 _-Roose Bolton, A Dance with Dragons_

 **The Blood Bath**

The tart blackberry preserve spread generously over warm, crusty bread tasted like muddy hay in Eira's mouth. Her fingers rapped nervously at the red oak desk she was supping at, barely able to concentrate on the task of eating. Her stomach was in knots thinking of the day that awaited her. Paranoia had tainted what should have been a welcome break from the confines of the chamber. Pouring over illuminated illustrations in old manuscripts and feeding squawking ravens practically seemed like an adventure compared to her usual days of isolation. But she was perceptive enough to know that Ramsay's gifts were a double edged sword that took as much as they gave. He enjoyed toying with people and offerings that were bestowed usually involved some element of cruelty or mischief. She had not forgotten the lovely hunting trip into the woods that he had promised her.

The mention of Abbey escorting her to the tower also troubled her. The first time Eira had heard the name was when the kitchen matron had sent her to Ramsay's chamber to serve his meal in her stead, as she had been stricken with a fever. The second was when Eira had traded a silver coin she had pilfered from Ramsay's pockets with a serving girl for information regarding useful castle secrets. The women of the Dreadfort were hardened women who knew the consequences of idle gossip. They would not talk for less than silver. In a hushed whisper she had been told that Abbey bathed in the blood of flayed criminals of the dungeons. Eira could scarce believe the story and maintained a healthy scepticism of the claim.

Though she felt distinctly uneasy, Eira's interest had nevertheless been piqued. It was a morbid curiosity of the girl that was subject to rumour of such cruel insanity. Notably, she had also been chosen as the one trusted to serve the meals that Ramsay took privately in his quarters prior to her arrival. They must have been confident that she could make it out in one piece.

Ramsay was standing by the window that overlooked over the expansive cobble stone courtyard, sullen and quiet.

"Have you lain with her?" Eira couldn't resist inquiring, with a hint of envy creeping into the husky timbre of her voice.

Whatever he had been ruminating upon, was a spell broken by her question. He strode over to the desk and cupped her serious face in his hands, planting a wet kiss affectionately on her forehead. Ramsay was rather fond these rare displays of jealously. Eira was more prone to bouts of violence and complete apathy than anything resembling possessiveness. When he eyed an attractive handmaiden in their chamber she would barely stir, content in the fact that she alone shared his bed. Eira had more self-confidence than she gave herself credit for and Ramsay thought of her as tougher than a dragon egg to crack. Though she seemed in shock after their hunt, she was able to regain her composure within days.

Much to her annoyance Ramsay evaded the question. He wouldn't acknowledge that before Eira he had found sex somewhat mundane. While the power of inhabiting the most sacred part of another was at first exciting- it had soon become boring. He had tried to make it more mentally arousing, feeling as though he should comply to conventional wisdom that said it was an integral part of masculinity to enjoy such pleasures. But in truth he much preferred playing elaborate psychological mind games, flaying, hunting or the odd game of cyvasse. Though he was not inexperienced, he had never met a true equal in the bedroom. Cowering, timid maids that trembled with fear was a novelty that wore thin. Ramsay had found that he enjoyed receiving pain as much as inflicting it upon others, but the women he had encountered didn't have the stomach or the spirit to truly enjoy it. He had always thought that poison was a women's weapon, not their physicality. But Eira had proved him wrong. She was as slight as ghost grass, but had the courage of a lion.

Eira had stirred within him an unprecedented passion. She had almost strangled him on several occasions, wrapping her small hands around his windpipe when she orgasmed, turning him the hue of shade-of-the-evening. He could map every memory they had made together on his body. Ramsay revelled in the fact that though she could deny it as much as she wanted, Eira was in her own way as damaged as himself. After all, what sort of person left all their possessions behind to journey South on a fools errand to see desert sands? The Kingsroad was a perilous place, she would have lasted a few weeks at best before she was raped and murdered. Even if she had managed to survive the thieves and bandits, she had little coin and would have resorted to whoring herself for food. She was as impulsive as he was. His father had often called him a mad dog, who roved wildly without any fear of consequences. Fear kept one alive Roose would say, but neither him nor Eira had much regard for it.

"I have something more important to discuss with you than fucking Abbey," Ramsay blurted out impatiently with a look of exasperation, pacing the stone floors.

"I have received a raven, my father has commanded that I take Winterfell from the Ironborn. Balon Greyjoy's turncloak son Theon has taken claim. It's a good opportunity for me to make a bid for legitimacy... I can't take you with me."

Ramsay paused for a moment, as if conflicted about what he was going to say next.

"You will wait for me won't you?" Though the way it was enunciated sounded more like an exclamation than a question.

In truth Eira couldn't remember the last time she had thought about fleeing South. Not since the hunt in the woods when she had bolted on her mare and been recaptured by Ramsay. It had begun to feel like home. After her parents died her cottage no longer felt like her own. It was easy to flee with whatever she could carry on her back.

"Of course milord. You don't even need to threaten to have me hunted down and flayed if I don't pine away in your chambers waiting for you like a dutiful bedwarmer," she replied with a teasing smirk. Her eyes however, betrayed the sadness behind the jest.

"You are more than just my bedwarmer Eira," he replied.

"Don't get sentimental on me, I know you too well for that Ramsay."

"I'm taking the best of my men with me to Wintefell, but I know even unguarded you can take care of yourself," he said sternly, expecting nothing less from her.

"What of the name you want from me?" Eira asked apprehensively, feeling foolish to bring up the matter and stir the hornets nest.

"I have more pressing matters than those little amusements. Don't fret over it pet, come here. Show me how much you're going to miss your Lord."

She stood up from his desk where she had been breaking her fast and wrapped her frail arms around his broad chest, an affectionate gesture she was rarely comfortable with. Sex for Eira was easy with Ramsay, but the casual physical gestures of intimacy outside sexual activity were not. Kisses in the heat of passion were one thing, but otherwise she felt a vague discomfort. When she was younger boys had called her frigid. An ice queen. After her parents died she couldn't stand the touch of another on her skin. She remembered when well meaning villagers at Karhold had patted her comfortingly on the arm during her period of mourning, and she had shied away as if their touch burnt. Even the feeling of another's hand brushing against her own in the exchange of coin made her skin crawl.

Eira felt the heat emanating from their embrace and held him tighter, crushing his muscular chest against her own small body and nuzzling her face into his shoulder. It was easy to give into her lust for the dark and handsome youth, with his blue eyes and moon face. But opening up like this to Ramsay made her feel truly naked. She felt exposed in the same way she had been when sobbing in his lap after her capture and spanking. It made her feel weak.

"We're not going to dine alone in our chambers tonight, I'm taking you to the long hall to feast before I depart on the morrow. My father is away, I can have whomever I want seated in the place of honour," Ramsay said, untangling himself from their embrace and kissing her cheek lightly.

"I have preparations to make for my journey. Abbey will help you bathe and dress after you meet Maester Wolkan. I will see you later," and with that he departed from their chamber.

* * *

Eira had never met the infamous Abbey in person, but she had pictured someone more imposing than the woman who stood before her. She was short in stature and slight, overall rather plain in appearance. Fine lines creased the corners of her eyes and her undistinguished features, though it was difficult to guess her age. She was certainly no maid and had a slight sag to her flesh, but she didn't seem elderly either. Darkness didn't radiate from her, not in the same charismatic way that Ramsay commanded attention. Eira wondered what she had done to be subject to such abominable rumours for she certainly didn't seem like the sort of person who would rouse terror or jealousy.

Feeling her muscles relax from the tension in her stiffened body, Eira let out an almost audible sigh of relief. It all felt rather anti-climactic. They walked together in silence, plodding along the dim passageways that were decorated with banners of the flayed man. Eventually Eira felt as though she should attempt to make some polite small talk;

"Did you grow up at the Dreadfort?" she asked.

But she was met by a stony silence. Eira felt agitated at her cold aloofness and stubbornly pressed on with more questions. _She would not be ignored so blatantly_ , she thought to herself with irritation.

Abbey gradually appeared more and more irked by her incessant chatter. Her nut brown eyes flashed with anger as she jerked her head sharply to face Eira. Trembling with rage, her features had distorted into angry mask. A snakelike sneer had slithered across her lips. Eira felt a twinge of fear, she had prodded a viper that was best left alone.

Abbey made a guttural noise and opened her mouth into a wide toothy grin, much to Eira's horror. She didn't have a tongue.

An unpleasant awkwardness descended upon them. Eira felt embarrassed for having unwittingly goaded her like that, but she didn't know how to offer an apology without causing further offence. She was grateful when they finally reached the grand Maester's tower that had ivy spiralling around it's thick trunk. It reminded her of the tales of chivalry and valour she had been told as a small child, of knights who rescued fair damsels from towers.

Abbey pounded on the heavy wooden door impatiently and Maester Wolkan answered with a neutral expression. Upon seeing him, she quickly turned her heel and disappeared into the shadows.

For an old man, he opened the door with surprising ease. He was an unshaven, balding man with close-set pale grey eyes. The black robes he wore hung loosely around his rotund body and a large chain was slung haphazardly around his shapeless neck. She had once been told that all the links on the chain signified the areas that they had studied in the Citadel.

"I've been instructed by Ramsay to teach you basic literacy. You will learn how to grasp a quill correctly and write letters, also assisting me in tending to the ravens. As you gain competency, you will be instructed on the correct methods for healing wounds with medicinal herblore. My main duties here at the castle involve ensuring that the interrogated prisoners last until their next session. Stitching to wounds, tending to broken bones, amputations..." Maester Wolkan trailed off and cleared his throat, fearing he had given the girl too much detail.

Eira returned his gaze with her large, unblinking doe eyes.

"If women aren't allowed allowed take the chain, what is the point of this?" she asked, genuinely perplexed by Ramsay's unclear motivations.

"That's not for me to say, I only follow orders," he shrugged with a small sigh. "I must say I would have hoped for an acolyte who wasn't completely illiterate though," he twittered with clear exasperation.

Eira didn't take offence. It was better to be around someone who spoke plainly than those with unclear agendas, the Maester seemed genuine enough. It was uncommon for a woman of her station to be taught highborn pursuits at all than alone traditionally masculine ones. At least he hadn't insulted her intelligence by questioning whether she had the aptitude to learn at all based on what lied between her legs. Women were thought to be suited only to embroidery, singing, dancing and other feminine arts. Anyone who diverged from this path was mocked or feared. Ramsay however seemed liberal as far as men in Westeros went. He had never thought her inept at riding a horse or wielding a knife, he admired her strength rather than discouraging it. But Wolkan seemed graceful enough to not make an issue of the matter.

The room was cosy, filled with quaint vials and pots of strange insects, plants and potions. It had a modest fireplace to warm the chamber and rows of books that were perched precariously on dusty bookshelves. A large desk sprawled out in the centre, mottled with manuscripts and wax seals. Maester Wolkan plucked a voluminous book out from one of the shelves and placed it in her small hands.

"You will need to learn to identify herbs in order to make a poultice, which draws out the bad blood. This book has drawings of all the key plants that grow in the area. Familiarise yourself with their pictures and we'll go through their properties," he said briskly.

The day flew by fairly quickly and to her surprise she took a keen interest in herblore and the syntax of the common tongue. Maester Wolkan was teaching her to speak properly in addition to the alphabet. Some of the things she was told was common known lore amongst the smallfolk, but other aspects were entirely new and fascinating to her. Eira had lived a fairly simple, provincial life of humble means. While she wasn't as poor as some, lucky enough to have been raised in a cottage with livestock and a modest garden, she knew little about the scholarly facets of the world around her. She had been told stories about what lay across the Narrow Sea as a small child by her mother, but she was also completely ignorant in many ways.

The sun was starting to set in the sky, bathing the room in a brilliant myriad of pink and scorched orange. The Maester was starting to tire, wearily drooping in his chair and rubbing his stomach hungrily. Abbey had been in the back of her mind all day, and she finally found the courage to tentatively inquire about her. When he was fatigued and didn't have his wits about him seemed like a good opportunity, she could catch him unguarded.

"The girl who escorted me... Abbey... Do you know her?" she quizzed, trying her best to sound casual.

"Her name wasn't always Abbey," he replied mysteriously.

Eira's eyebrows furrowed, feeling slightly bewildered. "But do you know her?"

"There are few who don't," Maester Wolkan replied vaguely.

"She has no tongue..." Eira ventured.

He studied her carefully, fear writ over his face.

"Was it Ramsay?" her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she awaited his answer expectantly.

The old man shook his head. "She was Roose Bolton's mistress. In her youth she was an attractive Lady, sought after by many suitors. In her noble finery she was quite a sight to behold," he said with a hint of nostalgia.

"Roose has always held fast to the idea that regular leechings purge a man of bad blood. Abbey however didn't believe in drawing it out, but rather soaking in it. She believed it was good for her complexion. His late wife, Bethany Bolton, found the whole thing... unsavoury. Before Bethany succumbed to fever, she had Abbey's tongue removed and bought her house to ruin. She feared that any bastards sired by her would be a threat to Domeric's claim. Already there was Ramsay born to the millers wife to worry about than alone more competition for him," he paused for a moment to take a sip of ale from his goblet before continuing.

"For his part, Roose respected her wishes and had her mercifully sent to the kitchens. Ramsay gave her the name Abbey, a plainer moniker he felt was more befitting of her new station. Perhaps he enjoyed taking the last fragment of her identity by forcing her to forget who she was. He has her serve his meals for his own amusement no doubt," he said with a rueful shake of the head.

"What was her name?" Eira asked softly.

Maester Wolkan smiled wryly; "I shouldn't be telling you any of this than alone utter that name."

"Why are you?"

"A warning. You would be mad to trifle with the Bolton's. I have served this house for over a decade, but it's a dangerous game to play. You don't belong here," he said with a frown, though not unkindly.

A brisk knock at the door startled them both, and Eira a slightly reluctant Eira was spirited away. She had enjoyed conversing with the man.

* * *

The washing room was her favourite of the castle, nestled closely to Ramsay's quarters it felt like a world of it's own. It wasn't dreary and bleak like the others in the castle, lacking the grim ambience that the Dreadfort was renowned for. It was a place that was golden and warm. Unlike the bloody gore which featured in the tapestries that were scattered elsewhere, here the walls were decorated with intricate scenes of bathing nymphets and magical creatures. Lithe fairy folk stretched out in cool forest streams flanked by centaur and direwolves. It never failed to make her gasp in awe and delight.

Moreover, Ramsay had revealed the best parts of himself in this room. The oversized claw-foot tub held many of her favourite memories in it's smooth, marble. Here he could be kind and verged closely on romantic.

Abbey was busying herself in the corner next to the fireplace, stoking the tinder and fumbling with vials of perfumed oils.

Eira felt self-conscious as she removed her rough-spun wool tunic, peeling it slowly from her thin frame. While she had grown used to handmaidens seeing her naked body- Ramsay bathed with her alone. Washing and cleansing themselves was an activity that was private to them, and oft involved sexual games. She had come to associate the rituals of bathing with a secret intimacy.

Triumphantly discarding the last article of her clothing, she sauntered over to the bath confidently. If she acted boldly, she hoped that she would start to feel it. She pushed aside the dark tale Maester Wolkan had told her. Ramsay didn't seem to think Abbey was much to concern herself with after all.

Petals of lavender and winter rose were scattered over the water, floating serenely on the surface of the generously filled tub. As Eira got closer she wrinkled her nose, the crimson tinged water didn't smell as sweetly as she had expected. The baths she had grown accustomed to were usually heavily perfumed with expensive, exotic oils. But she refrained from being overly fastidious and submerged herself bravely into the murky depths without complaint. _It obviously isn't red, thick blood but harmless water_ , she reassured herself.

Abbey shuffled over to the bath and began to wash her ebony hair, pulling firmly on her locks and rinsing.

Eira curiously scrubbed at her longs legs, her skin seemed to be staining a light shade of pink. Quite foolishly, she didn't twig that anything was amiss and let her tired muscles relax in the hot, soothing water. It wasn't until a few rouge splashes dripped onto her tongue that she realised with a sickening lurch what the bath had been tainted with.

She tasted rich copper on her tongue.

In a desperate flurry, her arms and legs tangled as she flopped out of the bath with an undignified thud. The cold stone floor did little to cushion her fall.

Eira noticed Abbey studying her face carefully, monitoring her for a further reaction. This gave her a renewed sense of composure. She couldn't let her know that she was getting under her skin, for that gave up power. While she was clueless as to why she would do this to her and longed to angrily shake the disturbed woman, with quiet defiance she held out her arms instead- gesturing to be dressed.

Abbey retrieved a lavish gown from a wooden hanger and dutifully laced up the bodice. The final touch was a warm, pink velvet cape that she splayed over her small shoulders elegantly. Eira dipped her hands into the deep pockets to warm them, and to her surprise felt a piece of parchment brush against her fingers. She drew it out of her cape to study it, but to her disappointment she couldn't decipher the arrangement of neat, cursive letters. When she looked up, Abbey had already gone.

* * *

 _Note: Bethany Bolton is from the ASOIAF novels and is not OC. Maester Wolkan is from the show (in the books he is Maester Tybald.)_


	4. Our Blades Are Sharp

_**Authors Note** : The lyrics within are by Marie de France (1155-1189) a popular female poet of the Middle Ages, entitled 'Song from Chartivel.'_

 _The usual warnings apply. This chapter is half feasting and half 50 shades of Bolton._

* * *

 **Our Blades are Sharp**

The bitterly cold Northern wind was howling angrily, whipping the flayed man banners against the grey stone facade of the long hall with a resounding crack. Their peeled, flayed man was stretched over an upside down cross and Eira felt as though their faces were peering down at her. Her moleskin boots were sinking into the thick, quilt of frost that had blanketed the castle yard. The silent guard that was ushering her to the hall wore a scarlet red helm that shone like a torch as he guided her towards the wide doors of oak and iron. She waited patiently as the guard swung the heavy door open before stepping into an inviting warmth that caressed her frozen skin. The inside of the hall was dimly lit with towering beeswax candles that dripped fat, molten pools down the cast-iron candelabras. The haunting shadows they cast on the wall danced jauntily as the soldiers moved about the long, trestle tables.

The soldiers were rough and intimidating. They watched her with sinister eyes and sour expressions as she sauntered confidently through the isles. Clad in black chain mail over boiled leather, their gravel voices boomed through bleak hall. Congregating on one side was a group of men that were throwing scraps to Ramsay's bitches. They laughed with harsh guffaws at the spectacle of the hounds leaping to great heights in the air as they snatched meat between their razor sharp incisors. Wrangling for the prize cuts of lamb, they barked loudly and vied for dominance. Eira thought to herself that it was only a matter of time before one of the fools lost their hand. The half feral dogs were loyal only to their master, Ramsay, and the kennlemaster Ben Bones. They wouldn't hesitate to tear into their flesh if a stray arm got in the way of their meal.

On the raised platform at the end of the hall, the dais, sat an expansive table that was usually reserved for noble guests. Ramsay was waiting for her at the head of the table and gestured expectantly as she neared, signalling for her to be seated to his right. Eira slung her pink velvet cape over the back of the chair as she gracefully sat down and rubbed at her stomach hungrily. The air was thick with enticing aromas that covered the scent of the unshaven, rugged men. Roast lamb, venison pies, barley stew, buttered mushrooms and root vegetables were splayed over the tables generously. It was a hot, hearty feast offset by cold pitchers of ale. _I should moderate my appetite lest my dress burst at the seams_ , she thought to herself happily as she reached for the buttered mushrooms.

Her bodice was tight, with a plunging scalloped neckline that slashed all the way down to her narrow waist. Her small, firm breasts were threatening to spill out from the scant material. Cascading satin waves of seafoam green flared out at her hips, complimenting her cloudy, grey eyes prettily. The gown was more colourful than anything she had ever worn, it felt as light and enchanting as dew kissing lush, rolling hills on a cool morning.

"You look exquisite in the dress Eira," Ramsay whispered to her charmingly, with his eyes cast unapologetically down to her ripe breasts.

The other men at the table paid her little attention, they dug into their meals barely daring to meet her eyes than alone stare licentiously at her revealing dress as Ramsay was. She wasn't formally introduced to them as etiquette would dictate. Eira assumed they were those in the most trusted positions in the mighty Bolton force, or perhaps they were simply the group that Ramsay thought would display the best table manners. They were not particularly talkative, commenting only on the high quality of the food or a few remarks about the weather they anticipated would greet them at Winterfell. The silverware clinked and clattered against the plates as they all eagerly devoured their food. Despite the lack of regard she was being shown, she still felt as though she was being put on display.

Feeling increasingly self conscious, she tried to place her attention elsewhere. The singer standing unobtrusively in the corner of the dais caught her gaze. He strummed a high harp with silvered strings and sung in a crisp, fruity tone. His song was a mere whisper over the noisy din of dogs barking and the bawdy behaviour of the men that were seated at the lower, trestle tables. The melancholy, ethereal notes woven expertly by his long, elegant fingers made her heart swell in delight. Eira strained to listen to his melody as he murmured;

Hath any loved you well, down there, Summer or winter through?  
Down there, have you found any fair  
Laid in the grave with you?  
's death's long kiss a richer kiss  
Than mine was wont to be–  
Or have you gone to some far bliss  
And quite forgotten me?

What soft enamoring of sleep

Hath you in some soft way?  
What charmed death holdeth you with deep  
Strange lure by night and day?  
A little space below the grass,  
Our of the sun and shade;  
But worlds away from me, alas,  
Down there where you are laid.

Eira took a sip of the ale, letting the robust and slightly bitter flavour wash over her palate as she listened to the lilting, sombre poetry of the song sung by a handsome minstrel. She began to sway a little to the music, feeling pleasantly merry. Though she was a woman flowered and considered to be of an age to enjoy alcohol, she had never let herself reach intoxication. But tonight she was feeling daring and allowed herself to relinquish her careful, composure- swallowing down her tankard at a greedy pace. Wine was more oft favoured by the highborn than ale or beer, but she figured that Ramsay was catering to the most simplistic taste of the men who had been invited to the feast.

Ramsay stood up from his chair and raised his goblet high into the air. It was his father's, inscribed in the silver was a large 'B.' The hall froze into complete silence and the minstrel stopped strumming abruptly.

"I propose a toast, to my fair Lady- Eira of Karhold," he declared with a commanding tone.

All eyes turned to her, full of judgement and distaste. Perhaps they could sense that beneath her finery, she was no highborn Lady.

The men followed suit and raised their tankards of ale, but the begrudging way in which it was done bothered her. She had the distinct feeling that they thought he was parading a whore before them or overstepping his station in Roose Bolton's absence. While they smiled out of courtesy and fear, it didn't reach their eyes. Ramsay may have been named Castellan in Roose's wake, but he was a bastard named Snow no matter how he styled himself as Lord Bolton. They were Roose's men. Eira frowned slightly, her cheerful buzz from the singing and feasting was dissipating quickly.

Ramsay sat back down and continued his meal with table manners that put her own to shame. She barely knew how to correctly hold a folk, but he sliced into his meat with surgical precision- his silverware clattering with a neat tinkle. He certainly knew how to wield a knife. When he bit into the meat he closed his mouth and chewed thoroughly. The other men at the table didn't have as much grace, their beards dripped with fat and grease as they tucked into their meals savagely. Though winter was coming and the lavish feast seemed reckless, Eira had the good sense not to broach the topic with Ramsay. She thought that the Dreadfort ought to be reserving their supplies for the long, bitter season and she wasn't sure that Roose would approve. Eira would hate for him to rouse his fathers ire.

Ramsay also seemed lost in thought. He was pensive and lacked the deviant look of mischief that he wore so well. He was most likely formulating his plan to take Winterfell from Theon, she thought to herself. Ramsay enjoyed trickery and cunning game play over the simple use of brute force and it would require more thought than a simple invasion.

When they had eaten their fill he dismissed the men from the hall and took her by the hand, leading her back to his chambers through a maze of passageways. She felt giddy and light-headed, having consumed more ale than she had intended. As they walked together hand-in-hand, she felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. A girlish giggle escaped her lips and Ramsay looked at her delightedly. He was pleased at her change in demeanour and it caused him to break his own sullen silence. Eira's chest was blotched with patches of red from the ale she had drunk and her eyes were heavy lidded with dilated pupils. When it was just the two of them like this things felt simple, unencumbered by the pressure of duty.

When they arrived at the door to his chamber he scooped her up with a flourish and carried her over the threshold to the bed chivalrously, cradling her in his strong arms. She grazed his lips with her own, gently sucking the bottom lip into her mouth and biting down roughly. Despite her demanding mouth he returned the cruel nibbles with gentleness, snaking his tongue into her mouth sensually and massaging it against her own. She savoured his taste and ran her hands appreciatively under his doublet, feeling the hard lines of his muscular chest and trying to memorise every last inch before he left for Winterfell. All the hunting he did had chiselled his physique nicely.

Eira grew impatient at their pace it was not gentle she wanted, so she balled her fists into Ramsay's doublet insistingly until he dropped her onto the soft bed and came crashing down on top of her. He pressed hard against her own small body, until she was mewling and trembling at the increased contact. As he trailed his hands into the plunging neckline of her gown and cupped her soft breasts, she let out a sharp hiss. She let herself melt against him, allowing him to dominate her and leave her breathless under the frenetic weight of his body as he bruised her mouth with more kisses.

Her breath hitched as he gently pinched at her hardening rosebud nipples, swirling them between his forefinger and thumb. Breaking their kiss off with an audible pant, he held her face between his hands and tilted her chin upright so she was looking him square in the eye; "If you want to part tenderly instead of leaving each other bloody, now is the time to back down," he said with a mischievous glint in his icy, blue eyes.

"I want you to mark me, give me something to remember you by," she replied with a coquettish, challenging smile.

Ramsay agilely lifted himself off her and retrieved a sharp blade from the desk. The needle point glimmered in the candlelight wickedly, making her tremble with nervous anticipation. He took the knife and cut the bodice and silk skirts in a swift motion, parting the fabric with a loud tear. The lavish gown was left in tatters, exposing her lithe body to the cold night air. Ramsay was still fully clothed in a formal black woollen doublet with intricate embroidery, and breeches. He looked effortlessly regal, smirking in satisfaction and running his hands through his wavy, brown hair as he looked down at her. She was flushed from both the ale and the heat they had generated from rocking against each other, her ebony hair splayed out like a fan against the white sheets.

"Let's play a game. If you can lie still and unflinching while I kiss you- I shall reward you. If you lose, I choose your punishment."

Eira nodded eagerly, the corners of her mouth edging into another smile.

Ramsay started at her ankles, giving them each small pecks and working his way up her calf slowly. She inhaled sharply when he reached the sensitive spot at the back of her knees. She tried her best to stay perfectly motionless as he tormented her, tickling her with his tongue playfully. She pressed a finger to her lips, trying to suppress the urge to laugh and shudder involuntarily. As he reached further up her ivory thighs and closer to her core, his kisses became increasingly sensual. He wetly planted them and nibbled softly at her delicate flesh. He toyed with her mercilessly and she felt a rush of pride at how well she was doing so far, staying rigid as stone.

Eira felt herself grow wet as his lips delved threateningly close to her mound. His warm breath caressed her soft, pink folds and Eira resisted the urge to rake her nails hard against his back and push his face hard against her. It wasn't easy for her to give up control like this. He chuckled at the sheen of sweat that was starting to coat her body. She was visibly shaken with the exertion it was taking to stay still. Ramsay grasped her hips and squeezed down hard, feeling his cock grow uncomfortably stiff. But he ignored the tenting in his breeches to focus on the task at hand.

"That isn't fair you're not allowed use your hands," Eira protested loudly with a slight whine.

Ramsay laughed merrily at how invested she was getting in the game, squabbling over the rules as if he ever intended on playing fairly.

But he held up his hands in surrender and continued his ministrations on her thighs, kissing them thoroughly before finally reaching her apex. He lapped at the wet fluid that was pooling on her glistening lips, before pushing his tongue right inside her. Eira moaned lustfully as he fucked her with his tongue in a slow and steady rhythm, but she managed to remain frozen against the bed. It wasn't until he flicked his tongue against her nub and bit down that she finally succumbed to the desire to move. She held his head firmly with her hands and bucked against him wantonly, pulling at his dishevelled hair.

She could feel Ramsay's victorious smirk against her skin as he withdrew from his place between her legs. That teasing, sly smile she had grown so fond of. She wanted to sob with frustration, she had been so close.

"I win," he declared proudly- as if it was an equitable game to begin with. "I'm going to enjoy punishing you for this Eira."

He gave her hard pebbled nipples a rough pinch, smirking with satisfaction when he elicited a pained yelp. The assault on her small breasts continued as he gave them hard swats which he made her count out. When she didn't enunciate the numbers clearly enough he slapped his hand violently against her mound, causing her to shriek as she desperately tried to close her legs in vain. Ramsay pinned her down with his weight, and she felt helpless against him.

When her nipples started to redden and swell from the violent attention he climbed off her and retrieved a leather riding crop that was located in a carved, wooden trunk. He moved like a lion closing in on his prey as he neared the bed. Eira whimpered as he started to lash at her pale body. It wasn't enough force to break her skin and leave her bloody, but it did leave a trail of reddened welts down her willowy frame. When his wrist began to cramp, he relented and gently glided the tip of the crop over her thighs until he reached her core. Ramsay used the instrument to part her dusky, pink folds and inspect her with it. Eira felt self-conscious at his exploration with the object and reddened prettily.

When he removed the crop he was delighted to find a wet coating gleaming on the supple leather. She had maintained her arousal despite his cruel punishment, staying slick and ready for him.

"Taste yourself," he commanded as he slid the crop into her parted, ruby lips. He forced her to lick off the juices, simulating how he longed to sink his length deep into her mouth. "How can I punish you my pet when you are so debased that you enjoy every moment?" he taunted her as she hungrily lapped up her own cum.

Eira didn't understand why she only grew wetter and more needy when he humiliated her by talking like that. His stern voice was intoxicating to her and seductive.

When Ramsay was satisfied that she had suitably cleaned the leather with her saliva, he returned the crop down to her cunt. He slid it against her folds teasingly before gently inserting the rounded tip into her. Eira bucked against it, whimpering kittenishly. When he slowly withdrew it at an achingly slow speed, she groaned at the throbbing emptiness that she was left with. She tried to pull him down and press his body against hers- desperate for contact and the crush of his hard muscle against her small frame. She rocked against his thigh, leaving a large damp spot on his breeches. Eira felt delightfully sinful as she continued to grind her naked body against him- he was still fully clothed in his formal attire looking every bit the noble Lord.

"Do I need to restrain you pet, before you ruin my breeches?" Ramsay crudely growled in her ear, causing heat to flood her cheeks. She couldn't meet his eyes and tried to bury her face in the bed.

"I'm almost disappointed. You have been particularly pliant tonight. Aren't you going to strike me for talking to you like this?" he asked, recollecting fond memories of the times she had bit and slapped him for making similar remarks. He enjoyed her passionate and reckless abandon. Ramsay strongly suspected that even she didn't know what went on in her head half the time- in between her moods of fearless detachment and unpredictability.

"Please-I don't want to play any more. I just want you inside me, please, Ramsay," she begged, her voice thick and full of longing.

She looked so beautiful pleading, with her glowing cheeks and the stripes of dark crimson contusions that ran over her body. Ramsay couldn't deny her.

Not bothering to disrobe, he simply unlaced his breeches and pulled out his well endowed manhood, positioning it at her entrance. He sheathed his thick organ fully to the hilt in one smooth thrust, causing her to cry out in pleasure. She moaned as she watched his cock quickly disappear into her body. Rocking back eagerly, she squeezed her tight walls around him and moaned in his ear. Biting hard into his neck, she managed to draw blood as he hit her spot at just the right angle- causing her to go completely rigid. The pain urged him on and he fervently pounded into her until she felt dazed and heady.

His doublet was growing damp with sweat from his frantic efforts, and her fluid had started to completely saturate his breeches. Ramsay cradled her head gently as she orgasmed and dissolved into pleasure, cursing the gods and shrieking his name as she pulsated. He was unable to hold off any longer himself as Eira shuddered and clenched down upon him, coming with a loud growl and biting down on her collarbone.

For the first time after sex, she laid in his arms and listened to his heartbeat pounding against her ear, nuzzling in closely as she could. He stroked her gently and ghosted lines into her body with his mouth, trying to archive each curve and dip. They laid sated and in perfect silence.

After a considerable lapse of time, Ramsay peeled himself off her damp body and retrieved the small but ornate, razor sharp knife he had used earlier to cut her dress. It had a curved tip and a hilt inlaid with tear drop shaped rubies.

"Unlike the other houses, my ancestors earned the Bolton words: _Our Blades Are Sharp_. They passed down not a Valyrian greatsword like Ned Stark's _Ice_ , but a knife. One honed and thin enough to fit between the topmost layer of skin and the soft tissue below- and peel. My father taught me as a child that a naked man has few secrets, but a flayed man none. He gave me this knife before he departed South. It belongs here in the Dreadfort. I want you to keep it safe for me here, until I return, Eira."

When he voiced her name it was like a sacred prayer uttered to a heart tree in a godswood. He imbued in it a measure of reverence. Names were important to Ramsay. She sensed that he desired legitimacy above all else. Though he styled himself as Lord Bolton, he was a Snow. The smallfolk had no surnames at all, Eira didn't. She was simply Eira. Bastards however, sired by the highborn had a generic regional name such as Snow or Waters. Although Ramsay lacked lofty ambitions, he wanted recognition and was not content being thought of as baseborn. By taking Abbey's name he had robbed her of the last fragment of her identity.

Ramsay placed the hilt of the knife in her delicate hand and closed her fingers around it. His blue eyes sparkled as they bored into her large doe eyes with brutal intensity. For the first time, she saw something that almost resembled love.

She had not been looked at that way in a very long time, the closest thing she knew was the familial affection her parents had for her. But that was long ago and her memories had become unreliable, obscured by the cruel mist of time. She couldn't remember the colour of her fathers eyes, or what her mothers favourite flower was.

"What am I do to with it?" She queried.

"Don't play innocent maid with me, you had a dagger on you when we first met," he laughed, "I'm not going to leave you here unarmed."

"It wasn't as beautiful as this," she replied, running her fingers over the gemstones.

"If you show aptitude in the healing arts the Maester will be teaching you, I will allow you to help tend to Theon Greyjoy when I return. I don't anticipate I will be sustaining any wounds myself," he said with a cocky grin.

"You won't kill him?"

"My father wants him alive as a captive, he is heir to the Iron Islands." Ramsay responded.

"That's merciful," Eira murmured, rather astonished.

A devlish grin spread over Ramsay's lips. "No, mercy is not what I intend for the Kraken my pet."


	5. The Minstrel and the Maiden

A 'meanwhile at the Dreadfort' interlude while Ramsay is procuring Theon Greyjoy. The ballad is by Marie De France (1160-1215).

* * *

 _These violent delights have violent ends_

 _And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,_

 _Which, as they kiss, consume._

\- Romeo and Juliet

 **The Minstrel and** **the Maiden**

Eira woke up in a cold bed. She was precariously close to the edge, huddled on one side in a tiny trembling ball with chattering teeth and blue tinged lips. Unfurling herself, she rolled over to the indentation Ramsay had left from where he had lain. She couldn't resist pressing her nose to the bedding and inhaling deeply, letting his intoxicating scent fill her nostrils. _Boiled leather and pine leaves. Of the forest caught in a summer storm._ Earthy and thoroughly masculine. Running her fingers lightly over the rivulets and channels of the crumpled bedding, she tried to imagine his lean, muscled body filling the void. It was strange to wake without him.

Usually Eira was first to rise, she was in the habit from when she lived on her small farm in Karhold. The rooster had stirred noisily at first light, signalling for her to feed the animals. Ramsay however, slept like the dead. He always looked so peaceful, as though he didn't have a care in the world. He wouldn't turn to and fro or tug at the furs, he was a marble statue. She however, suffered from nightmares and would wake up at strange hours screaming, breathless and covered in a sheen of sweat. Shadows with teeth and snarling hounds with weeping, human eyes was a recurring theme ever since the hunt. Sometimes she would dream that Poppy had warged into Ramsay's hound Red Jeyne. When she woke up terrified, she liked to kiss him gently where she had bruised his skin. The secret act was calming.

Eira wondered if Ramsay had kissed her before he had departed to Winterfell in the night.

Eira felt a spasm of pain in her breasts, her muscles ached from the torturous punishments Ramsay had inflicted. The welts from the leather crop mottled her body and had started to turn the shade of a bruised apple. She softly prodded at one, to test how sore they were- but she regretted it instantly and hissed in agony. Usually Ramsay would tend to her after any of their violent, sexual games- rubbing in balms and soothing lotions as skilfully as a Maester. But he was gone and she was alone with her injuries. Their exchange of power was practised ferociously. Ramsay used pain to heighten his pleasure. He said that being asphyxiated when he orgasmed made it almost unbearably intense. Toying with her until he succeeded in provoking her to strike him was also one of his favourite amusements. He loved control as much as he enjoyed relinquishing it to her. They were two sides of a coin in constant flux.

A rainbow beam of light from the stained glass window pane illuminated the dark canopy bed, eliciting a disgruntled groan from Eira as she realised that she couldn't linger any longer to lick her wounds. It was dawn and she had much to do. A tray of food had been left at the foot of the featherbed by a servant- splayed with neat wedges of cheese, wildberry pastries and warm bread. But even the smell of the hot baked treats didn't rouse her hunger. She felt overwhelmed emotionally as well as physically. Waking to an empty room made her chest feel tight, it was a sense of loneliness and abandonment. She hadn't felt this way since her parents had died. All these years later she could still remember the first morning she had woken up without them. Their presence had still felt tangible, as if at any moment her mother would beckon her to the kitchen with a warm smile for a boiled goose egg. She couldn't remember what style she wore her hair, or what her laugh had sounded like exactly- but she could still remember the _feeling_ as though it was yesterday.

Eira pushed the tray aside with an exasperated shove. She climbed out of bed and found a warm woollen tunic with sensible boots to wear for her day with the Maester. Even with a fireplace, the coldness permeated the air in the tower. She bit her lip to prevent herself from crying out in pain as she lifted the tunic over her body, even the soft wool felt like needles on her fresh contusions.

Without any further delay, she strode out of the chamber and through the long halls. The path Abbey had shown her was still clear in her mind and she felt confident that she wouldn't get lost. With the 6,000 man strong might of the Bolton force split South with Roose and North to Winterfell with Ramsay, the castle seemed practically deserted. She didn't encounter a single guard on her way to the turret. For Ramsay to abandon the Dreadfort like this even momentarily, he must have been sure of his victory and the swiftness that he would enact justice on the slimy Ironborn turncloak.

It seemed impossible that the castle could be any more creepy. She had once heard that human blood had been mixed into the mortar for the stonework, that the house Bolton founders had practised dark arcane magic. That was not to mention the rumoured room of human skin cloaks. The Stark ancestors were said to hold pride of place. But she had always managed to retain a relatively calm composure. When Ramsay was around, he distracted her from the morbidity with his blue eyes and handsome face. He had a mischievous streak to him that made everything somehow lighter. She had even grown desensitised to the flayed man tapestries that decorated his walls, she associated the room with pleasure. But today Eira didn't feel fearless. She felt like a terrified, lost little girl far out of her depth who jumped at every shadow that moved in their peripheral vision. By the time she reached Maester Wolkan's turret she was practically running, admonishing herself all the while for being so weak.

Eira opened the door with a clammy, trembling hand to find Wolkan hunched over his desk. He was scratching away noisily on parchment with a long, white feather quill deep in thought. A raven was protectively perched beside him and eyed her warily with a beady stare. Without breaking contact, it preened it's lustrous, black plumage and cawed raucously.

The elderly Maester startled with a tremor as the raven crowed noisily beside him.

"Don't let me interrupt," Eira politely murmured as he shuffled manuscripts around the desk haphazardly. A smattering of candles were burning low, dripping puddles of wax onto the wood.

"I'm afraid that Lord Bolton isn't as patient as the Masters at the Citadel were. It took me many years to hone my craft- but you don't have that long," he said with a rueful sight.

"I'm not sure I will have the stomach for the healing arts," she confessed.

"Rumour has it that Ramsay found you living in the woods by the Weeping Water. A wild girl who ate animal flesh raw," the Maester said with a hint of amusement crossing his face.

"And here I was thinking that people didn't dare to idly gossip at the Dreadfort. I know how to catch a rabbit to skin and eat, but I always cooked them first," Eira laughed in response. "Do you really think I will be able to handle it?"

"When I was an acolyte at the Citadel, I dreamt of serving a great house. The Tyrell's of Highgarden, the Baratheon's of Storm's End, the Dayne's of Starfall... I thought I would be working to unlock secrets of magic, reading about the mysteries of dragons and healing noble knights. It was a fanciful delusion of a foolish, green boy. The Dreadfort was a cold dose of reality. Most of my days are spent sewing up amputated limbs that have had the flesh flayed and sawn. You handle what you must."

"I had foolish dreams too. I was travelling South to explore Dorne and cross the Narrow Sea to the Summer Isles. Hot sand between my toes while I drunk exotic wine. Long days and warm nights," Eira whispered.

"Lord Bolton would nail my tongue to the wall for prattling like this, but don't plant your roots here. You are not a tree. You're not bound by duty as I was," the Maester said with a kind smile.

"I'm bound to Ramsay," she replied a little defensively.

"I can sense a touch of madness in you child. Don't indulge it. These appetites and games have violent ends," he warned with a sad shake of his head. The bruises and marks that peeked from her modest attire were embarrassingly indiscreet. She felt too shamed to ask him for any remedies that would help with their healing.

The rest of the day went by quickly. Eira practised stitching oranges with a needle and thread to simulate closing a wound and learnt more about the diverse range of medicinal herbs. To her surprise, Maester Wolkan was earning her trust quickly and broke through the cold facade that people usually found off-putting. He was blunt and honest with her, but not malicious. He reminded her of what she imagined her father would be like if he were still alive. She was half tempted to invite him to sup with her, it sounded more appealing than dining alone in her chamber. But she thought that the request would sound strange. So she bid her farewells and reminded herself that she had always enjoyed solitude. Self reliance had always been her best attribute and she couldn't forget who she was.

As Eira hurried back through the foreboding halls, an anxious flurry of limbs- she felt a small knot of guilt in her stomach. She hadn't uttered a word about Abbey to Ramsay. Not about the blood bath, the note in her cape or what she had heard from the Maester. They had never had secrets between them. But the feast had passed by in a blur and in the haze of their lovemaking it had gone out of her head entirely. But unintentionally or not- it felt wrong. Her stomach growled hungrily, interrupting her thoughts. She hoped that when she arrived at her chamber a hot meal would be greeting her, for she had worked up quite an appetite from diligent study.

In the distance, a faint melody could be heard drifting through the bitingly cold draft. It was the beautiful, mellow notes of a harp. Eira followed the sound curiously, and wove through the many entrances and passageways to find it's source. She followed the sound to a small sitting room adjacent to one of the bedchambers. Peeking her head through the open door, she eyed the extravagant furnishings. It was a panelled room filled with books, tapestries and paintings. Menacing Bolton ancestors glowered down from their hangings on the wall, guarding over the wooden cabinets that held various collections of war artifacts. Ancient daggers and swords shimmered in the light that was being cast from a torch held by a stuffed human hand. But Eira was too enraptured in the music to be revolted by the choice of light fixture.

It took her a moment to spot where the harp player was sitting. He looked princely and elegant despite an undignified spot on the dim, shadowy stone floor. Long, straight hair hair fell down past his shoulders, making him look feminine at a certain angle with his high cheekbones and delicate features. Completely lost in his music he swayed slightly to the rhythm, his bright green eyes sparkling like emeralds in a dark cave.

Eira stood quietly at the door, barely daring to breathe. She felt as though she was intruding on a private moment and feared he would stop if discovered. But she mustn't of been as stealthy as she thought because he turned to face her directly, continuing to let his fingers dance over the strings as he gazed at her inquisitively.

"The Lady of Karhold I presume? The toast of the feast- gracing me with her presence," the minstrel teased with an impish grin as he rose.

"Just Eira is fine," she replied, blushing at the title. "What is your name?"

"Ashter Dayne my lady. I'm a guest of the Bolton's. I played at the feast and was paid handsomely in gold dragons. With most of the household departed, I decided to extend my stay."

"Why would you want to be here?" she blurted as her eyes averted to the collection of sharp objects in the room, lit by the garish, severed hand.

He laughed in response and smoothed back the silver strands of hair which had fallen over his face. "Politics."

"Does your family approve of your profession?" Eira asked.

"I don't travel from castle to castle peddling my music if that is what you mean. Rhaegar _T_ argaryen was disposed to playing his harp on an occasion too," he replied with the flash of a smile.

Eira didn't know how he managed to compare himself to a Targaryen prince without sounding brazenly arrogant.

"The song you played was beautiful, the haunting ballad about a dead love... It was interrupted by the toast. Would you care to sing the rest while I sup in my chamber?" Eira queried. Even with most of the castle empty, it would still be foolish to linger out in the open with the handsome Ashter Dayne. No matter how innocent in nature. Ramsay no doubt had left loyal caretakers and spies in his absence.

"Do you think I've lost my wits? Alone with you in Ramsay's chamber? I would be flayed alive, Dayne or not. He isn't exactly known for his diplomacy," he replied with genuine shock. It seemed an even mix of both chivalrous code and fear.

"We're alone right now," Eira challenged. "Nobody will find out- the castle is half deserted and I won't let any servants or handmaidens in. I'm not suggesting anything improper, just a song while I eat," she pleaded with wide eyes and a reassuring smile.

"One song," he conceded.

* * *

When they arrived at her chamber they were both out of breath. Ashter rubbed his arm where he had carried the heavy, harp. Eira opened the door, delighted to find that supper had indeed been left for her. She politely offered him to share her soup and bread but he declined with a wave of his hand.

Ashter sat down with a graceful flourish on the rug covering part of the stone floor. He placed the high harp between his legs and straddled it snugly against his body before softly trailing his fingers over the strings. Eira dined at Ramsay's desk, sinking herself into the large leather chair and tucking into her meal eagerly.

As he played the first few chords of an exquisite arrangement, Ashter glanced warily around the room. His green eyes fixated on the gory tapestries of flayed men decorating the walls and the expansive, black cast iron canopy bed that dominated a large portion of the space. He looked distinctly uneasy.

Sensing his nerves, Eira felt a little anxious herself. But she told herself in a small voice that she deserved to have a friend, that Ramsay wouldn't resent her company. Her self assurances rang hollow. The words Ramsay had spoken in the woods before he cloaked her in his fur coat adorned with the flayed man sigil, were crystal clear and unambiguous. They played warningly in her head: _"Y_ _ou will ride by my side. You are_ _ _mine."__ Ramsay Snow was not a man accustomed to sharing his toys. But she wasn't riding by his side to Winterfell, he had left her here alone without an ally. Not that she was doing this to spite him, she genuinely wanted to hear Ashter's music. Having to be covert about it wasn't because she was being disloyal, but because it could be misinterpreted.

The beautiful melody weaved by his skilful fingers soon calmed her. She let the notes and timbre of his low voice wash over her, taking her to an otherworldly place as she relaxed her aching body.

My bright hair's waved and wasted gold,  
What is it now to thee  
Whether the rose-red life I hold  
Or white death holdeth me?  
Down there you love the grave's own green,  
And evermore you rave  
Of some sweet seraph you have seen  
Or dreamt of in the grave.

There you shall lie as you have lain,  
Though in the world above,  
Another life you live again,  
Loving again your love:  
Is it not sweet beneath the palm?  
Is not the warm day rife  
With some long mystic golden calm  
Better than love and life?

The broad quaint odorous leaves like hands  
Weaving the fair day through,  
Weave sleep no burnished bird withstands,  
While death weaves sleep for you;  
And many a strange rich breathing sound  
Ravishes morn and noon:  
And in that place you must have found  
Death a delicious swoon.

Ashter didn't stay true to his promise of only one song, continuing to play long into the night after she finished her soup. He seemed as though he was somewhere far away as he stared off into space and let his nimble hands take possession. It felt nice to have him here. She had never had a friend before.

Eira fell asleep on the bed, the music lulling her into a peaceful slumber. For the first time in months, she didn't have a nightmare.

The shuffling of feet and a dull thud startled Eira awake. The room slowly came into focus, it was morning- the sun was shining brightly outside her window. Ashter was slumped against his high harp on the floor, his body cradled against the long arch of the instrument. A tray of food was sitting on her featherbed and the door was being hurriedly slammed. Leaping out of bed, she flew after the servant. If word got to Ramsay that a man had slept in her chambers, they would both be flayed alive and fed in pieces to his bitches. She felt as though she was going to vomit and quaked in sheer terror, adrenaline coursing through her.

Eira caught a glimpse of a woman with dark hair turning the corner as she clambered at full speed out of the door, hot on her trail. She was gaining on her rapidly, and in a victorious pounce she gripped the woman's small shoulders and whirled her around.

It was Abbey.

Eira's eyes widened in alarm. "You can't write any notes to the Bolton's about what you saw. I know you are literate, you are highborn. That wasn't what it looked like. You know what their capable of."

She was met with cold eyes as she continued desperately- her words running into each other in a high pitched fervour. "Please. I know what was done to you. Why should you want to hurt me? You hold no love or loyalty for them surely?"

Waves of nausea were coursing through her body. Her head was spinning and her ears ringing. It was as though the walls were closing in on her. Eira realised hopelessly that she couldn't communicate with Abbey properly, that she couldn't be assured of her silence on the matter.

"Please, nod your head if you will keep this between us. He was only singing to me. You saw his harp. We simply fell asleep," Eira begged.

Abbey remained motionless as she continued to panic. Eira grasped her slight shoulders with her sweaty hands and shook her roughly- desperately trying to instigate a response. As she jerked her petite body violently, Abbey started to push back and close her hands tightly around Eira's throat in defense from the onslaught.

Eira couldn't even gasp for air, she was rasping as she felt the burn of Abbey's strong hands bear down upon her fragile throat. She tried to reach for the ruby encrusted knife in her pocket, her fingers desperately seeking the steel as the world began to lose focus. Her lungs caught fire, hungry for oxygen. Just as she was about to black out, her fingers grasped the hilt and she thrust the knife out her pocket forcefully and into Abbey's flesh in a swift motion. She plunged it deep into her flesh.

Abbey fell back onto the unyielding stone, bleeding profusely from her chest with the hilt of the knife sticking out. Blood trickled over the tear drop rubies, puddling wetly over the stone floor.

Eira felt tears stream down her cheeks as she squat down and pulled her onto her lap. Abbey's body went limp as she lost consciousness, her nut brown eyes fluttering to a close. She held her tightly in her arms as she pulled the knife from her breast. She tried to quell the bleeding by applying pressure to the wound with her hands, but it was to no avail.

Abbey died in her arms as she whispered unheard apologies in her ears. She sniffled into her sleeve, rubbing her wet face into the wool. Bloody hand prints were left on her tunic as she tried to wipe them clean, they were slick with blood.

Abbey was dead. All for a song.

"Gods, what happened?" Ashter asked in a wisp of a voice as he appeared in the hall, rushing to see what the commotion was about.

"I, I... She saw us. I tried reasoning with her. I was shaking her, she was strangling me. I just wanted her to stop," It was a muddle of words, none of which mattered- it was too late.

"We need to get her out of here Eira."

"I don't know what to do," she whimpered.

"We could throw her from the battlements. It would look as though she went for a walk and fell. They won't notice the stab wound among the mess," his face paled as he spoke. He couldn't believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

Although it sounded deplorable, they didn't have many options. Eira tried to steady her quivering hands and pull herself together.

They pulled Abbey by the arms, dragging her lifeless body along the stone floor. It was laborious work and by the time they reached the battlements they were spent. Eira felt as though they were desecrating her body. Subjecting her to a final indignity. She had deserved more in both life and death. Ramsay wouldn't judge her for killing, that aspect would have in all likelihood pleased him immensely. But she was sure that the circumstances were unforgivable.

As they rolled her body over the edge, the crunch of bones when Abbey made contact with the castle yard below was horrific. They both threw up, spluttering bile and stomach acid as the gravity of what they had done hit them. She wished Ramsay had never left for Winterfell.


	6. The Light That Brings the Dawn

Props to Spacehurps for beta'ing this chapter, you're the real MVP! :)

A departure and a return. This chapter is short and sweet.

* * *

" _The finest knight I ever saw was Ser Arthur Dayne, who fought with a blade called Dawn, forged from the heart of a fallen star. They called him the Sword of the Morning."_

– Eddard Stark

 **The Light That Brings the Dawn**

Eira had the distinct feeling that Ashter Dayne had never done a chore or manual labour of any kind in his entire life. He was holding a wet rag sodden with soap and lime as daintily as a lady would a cloth favour at a jousting tournament. They were scrubbing clean the incriminating blood spatter in the chamber hall, or in Ashter's case gently wiping, to remove any trace of an altercation. Eira had pilfered the pail and washing supplies from the kitchen galley along with several bottles of expensive Dornish red. She estimated that they had until noon before any of the servants had reason to be at this end of the castle.

Abbey's mangled body had been discovered by Ben Bones in the castle yard below the battlements. He was exercising Ramsay's hounds when they had torn off their leashes in a frenzy upon catching the scent of fresh meat. Before he could call them back and get them under control, they had already sunk their vicious teeth into her flesh and devoured part of her corpse. He buried her in an unmarked grave by the woods, dumping her unceremoniously beneath frosty banks of snow. Eira heard the pandemonium of the dogs barking and had rushed over to view the horrific scene through parted hands at the window. She couldn't look away, forcing herself to witness the brutal consequences of her actions with gritted teeth and a heavy heart. She told herself that she would lay wreaths of lavender and moonbloom at her resting place.

Eira thought back to when she had been considering selecting a candidate for Ramsay's hunt, one who seemed deserving. Someone that Westeros would be better without. At the time it had been a means of coping with the atrocities that Ramsay was committing and trying to reconcile the guilt she felt for being complicit in his actions. If the ends justified the means he used, perhaps it would be excusable. Abbey, or whatever her true name was before Bethany Bolton had gotten to her, was certainly no innocent Septa. She had lain with Roose Bolton, a wed man, and clearly practised dark magic with her macabre baths. But Eira knew deep down that no matter what Abbey had done, she had surely condemned her own soul to the mercy of the Gods.

"The floors are practically gleaming, Eira; I think we're done," Ashter announced with a disgruntled sigh.

"Let's lay low for a while back in Roose Bolton's sitting room," Eira suggested.

Even being in close proximity to a taxidermied human hand seemed more pleasant than being anywhere near the spot she had stabbed Abbey to death. It felt sullied even after they had returned the hall to a pristine state. No amount of cleaning blood from stone would exonerate her actions.

When they reached the sitting room, they sprawled out over the floor next to a shelf of books and drank vermilion wine straight from the bottle. They passed it back and forth, gulping the ambrosia liquid down greedily- hoping that answers lay at the bottom. It was heady and languorous on the tongue, rolling over their palates like fire. They drank until they were flush and the events from the day had receded in their minds. Unlike Ashter's fellow Dornish countrymen, who had Rhoynar heritage and dark skin, the Daynes had a fair Valyrian complexion. The wine had given him a rosy glow to his cheeks and his words slurred slightly as he spoke, the alcohol having loosened his tongue. His hair was a pale white gold, and strands of it shimmered silver in the soft candlelight.

"The song you wrote... She must have been some beauty for you to write her such hauntingly sublime poetry. You must miss her dearly," Eira said quietly.

"It wasn't a woman I loved, but a knight. A forbidden lover that was killed on the field of battle," he replied weakly, his voice wrought with sorrow.

"Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, is open about his persuasion- surely your family would have understood," she said gently.

"Understanding is one thing. Being able to escape the vows of an arranged marriage is another. We were always watched very closely; we never got to consummate our passion."

Eira patted his slender shoulders in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. She had never been in a position where she felt moved to console someone before. The only person she had gotten close to was Ramsay, and he wasn't the type to need placating. He rested his head against the nook of her neck and they sat together in a comfortable silence, their hair contrasting sharply against each other with their locks of white silver blonde and raven black.

"Escape is difficult. I was going to free myself of the harsh Northern climate and travel deep into the South. But I fell for Ramsay after he whisked me to the Dreadfort on his stallion, Blood. He found me by the banks of the Weeping Water," she said finally.

"You are always welcome at Starfall if you ever reach Dorne. I will sing you a song in the golden courtroom. One composed in honour of the exquisite lady of Karhold. A song of blood and snow. Your name is derived from the high Valyrian word for snow, is it not?" Ashter drawled, his tongue thick from wine.

"It is," she exclaimed with surprise writ over her face; she had never gotten many comments about it. Her mother had a penchant for exotic things. "Ramsay was exaggerating my station greatly, I'm afraid. I thought you knew!" she continued with a giggle and an endearing small hiccup.

"Your secret is safe with me," he replied with a mischievous, knowing twinkle in his green eyes. "It isn't gloomy like it is here in the North- cloudy, snowing and bitterly cold. Starfall is in the red mountains on an island, where the Torentine flows into the Summer Sea. Ivory turrets and washed white stone... There is a great tower called the Palestone Sword that seems to the reach up to the very Gods in the sky. My Aunt Ashara threw herself from the top in grief, but even with its tragic history it is still a sight to behold." his lips grazed her cheek with a chaste, brotherly kiss.

"The wine is going to your head," she laughed.

"I'm not japing. The next time I send a raven to Darkstar, I will tell him that the Dayne's will always be a friend to you," Ashter said with a solemn expression.

"I'm honoured." Eira smiled broadly.

Ashter ought to have hated her for getting him involved in subterfuge and murder, but for some inexplicable reason they had bonded over their trauma. He was a political envoy and talented musician, but he wasn't a hardened warrior. Eira doubted he had so much as held a lance or sword. He was just as affected by what had happened as she was. While they had only known each other for a mere night, it already felt like they were familiar old friends. Once in a lifetime, you meet someone who changes you in a big way and even if it isn't the spark of lovers, it is an undeniable chemistry woven by fate. On some level you belong together- perhaps just as friends or kindred spirits. It was a night that seemed to stretch over many moons.

He parted at dawn, folding into her small hands a worn map on parchment. It was the second time she had been gifted with a note, though this one was less mysterious than the last. It was of the Daynes' lands in Starfall.

"I wish you good favour and fortune, Eira of Karhold." While his hair shimmered brightly in the gentle rays of the autumn sunshine, his eyes were darkly rimmed from the long night of drinking liquor.

He seized her in his arms and gave her a warm, friendly squeeze with weary limbs before she could protest. The pleasant effects of the wine had worn off, leaving only a horrid sour taste in their mouths, the splitting feeling of an axe planted in their skulls, and the impotence of not being able to fully articulate their thoughts. But the embrace said all that was needed.

* * *

Eira continued her lessons with the Maester, and the nights grew colder and the days shorter. She couldn't tell how much time was passing; everything seemed a blur. Ramsay bought so much energy and presence to the castle, he burned brightly. He eclipsed everyone he stood by. Without him it was all a dim, lacklustre shadow. She wished Ashter had stayed and kept her distracted from her wistful yearning.

It took Eira awhile to trust Maester Wolkan enough and summon the courage to slip him the note she had found in her pink cape before the feast. But she owed it to Abbey to hear what was perhaps her last words.

"You still can't read this?" he admonished, as he peered at the letter with an eyeglass and furrowed brow.

She shook her head in embarrassment. While she was taking well to herblore and the practical sciences, reading and writing were not her forte.

"I warned you about getting entangled in the affairs of the Boltons. But if it's really that important..." He trailed off hesitantly before proceeding.

"I was Lady Mylenda Caron, from the Stormlands. I grew up in a castle called Nightsong under the sigil of black nightingales on yellow. In the age of heroes, we were renowned for the bravery of our warriors and the skill of our singers. I heard that Ashter Dayne, a nephew of Arthur Dayne, will be playing at the feast. I hope I can hear one of his famous ballads while I am serving food. A small reminder of my former home that was always filled with music. I heard he is one of the most handsome lords in Dorne, and despite my considerable age I admit I am infatuated. I imbued your bath with blood, to give you vitality and strength. I hope we can be friends."

Eira felt a lump form in her throat as he read the letter, her chest painfully tight. Later that day she buried the note with wreaths of flowers at her grave, pressing them against the cold snow that was melting in tiny pools where her hot tears fell. She wondered what had been going through her head when she had died. Whether she thought that Eira had betrayed Ramsay with Ashter, or if she was jealous. Or if she was simply trying to defend herself and had died afraid.

* * *

It was a crisp, clear day without a single cloud in the sky when Eira heard the thunder of hooves. The sun was refracting prettily off the blanket of freshly fallen snow from the night before. She rushed to the stained glass window in her chamber and looked out into the distance with eager eyes.

A procession of horses led by Ramsay on Blood was fast approaching the Dreadfort. He was flanked by a man on a horse who was trussed and hooded. The stallion the hooded man rode was being led by a Bolton soldier on foot. Ramsay's helm and gorget were wrought in the shape of a man's face and shoulders, skinless and bloody, with the opening for his mouth shaped in a silent howl of anguish. Her heart was pounding in her chest loudly, swelling with anticipation. She knew what lay underneath the theatrics of his ostentatious, gory armour.

Eira quickly dressed herself in the finest dress she could find, a licorice black gown adorned with precious gems. She smoothed her dark hair and preened herself the best she could, not bothering to wait on a handmaiden to assist with styling her hair or powdering her face. She had filled out from when she first arrived; regularly eating large meals of rich food instead of meagre rations of basic vegetables and eggs had done wonders for her figure. Where she used to be angular and bony, she was now soft and more shapely. Her dress clung tightly to her curves, emphasising her comely figure. Not bothering with smallclothes, she chose to be bare under the caress of the silk confection.

Ramsay emerged into their chamber sometime later, as the sun started to rise high in the sky. He had taken his helm off, but was still wearing leather armour and the black cape that was fastened in a cross over his chest. His dark brown hair was a tousled muss, and the corners of his mouth were edging into a satisfied smirk that could charm a dragon. All Eira could think about was what his body would feel like pressed against hers, and how his mouth would feel hungrily claiming her own.

"I played this almost constantly while we laid siege to Winterfell. It drove the Ironborn mad," he laughed merrily as he threw a small hunting horn onto the bed. She had seen that horn before, when he used it to hunt down Poppy with his bitches.

"One of Theon's own men, Dagmar Cleftjaw, smacked him unconscious, delivering him to me with a cloth bag over his head. They knew he didn't stand a chance against me, and Robb Stark promised them any Ironborn that surrendered peacefully would be granted mercy." He sneered upon the last line- clearly, he had acted to the contrary.

"What did you do with them?" Eira inquired dubiously, unsure whether she really wanted to know or it was better to remain blissfully ignorant.

"I flayed the entire garrison alive. I cut their skin from their bodies and hung the corpses from the very walls of Winterfell. All except for Theon Greyjoy... _I have other plans for him_ ," Ramsay said with an air of mystery.

"I set Winterfell alight and sent a raven to Harrenhal, where the main force of the Starks' army has gathered," he continued. "I blamed the sacking and burning of their castle on the Ironborn, also detailing the disappearance of Bran and Rickon. According to my letter, the whereabouts of Theon are unknown, so I can work on him in peace. Robb Stark and his bitch mother will have no idea that we have allied with the Lannisters. My father decided after Joffrey's decisive victory against Stannis Baratheon at the Battle of the Blackwater that the Starks don't stand a chance in the war. We plan to ally with house Frey to destroy them."

Though it was a lot of information to digest at once and quite convoluted, Eira knew he had been underhanded. She looked at him, utterly appalled. A burning coil of guilt gnawed at her stomach over what she had done to Abbey which, in all fairness, had somewhat been in self defence- and here Ramsay was, standing without an ounce of remorse over what he had done to the beautiful, ancient castle of Winterfell and the Ironborn men.

"Oh come now, Eira, would you have preferred I return to you with lies of knightly chivalry and honour? Or perhaps you would have preferred I played a different game and didn't return at all? My house is only strong if the rest of the North fear us," Ramsay reproached.

"Of course not. I'm so happy you're home, Ramsay. I missed you," Eira replied with eyes brimming with tears.

Though she knew that she was being manipulated, she couldn't find it in herself to care. She didn't want to argue, she was just happy that he was home in the Dreadfort where he belonged and they were together again. There was no point trying to disguise her emotions through feigned indifference and cool detachment. Eira knew that she could survive on her own. She had persevered even when her parents had died and left her an orphan at a very young age without kin. Despite the fact that Ramsay obviously thought she wouldn't have been successful in reaching the South without being molested or killed, she knew she could have made it. She was capable of having a full, happy life, entirely independent. But even knowing that, she chose to be with him anyway.

The narrative that she told herself internally was slowly reorienting the perspective of her memories. No longer was she captured by Ramsay and taken back to the hellish Dreadfort against her will, but she was an active agent of her own destiny. She was a girl who chose to fall for a monster by the banks of the Weeping Water. Kissing him may not have turned him into a chivalrous prince, but it had made her happy. She had almost even forgotten that she had nearly stabbed him with her dagger and stolen his horse. It was much more romantic in her mind, with smouldering looks and gentle seduction. She might not have been blind to who Ramsay was, but she was content despite it.

Eira sunk down to the floor on her knees and unlaced his britches, intending to show him just how much.


	7. Of Jealousy and Betrayal

_My apologies for the long delay in updating! I haven't abandoned this fic- I have always had the direction this will take and an ending in mind. Please let me know if you are interested in me continuing, I fear that the 4 month break will have lost any readers :(_

 _This is un-beta'd due to my rush in getting it out and will probably contain some minor grammatical mistakes._

Chapter warnings: Smut.

 **Of Jealousy and Betrayal**

Eira engulfed Ramsay Snow's cock with her wet heat, sucking and swirling her tongue over his length until she could feel him start to grow hard in her mouth. Her breasts were threatening to spill up out of the clingy, black silk gown as she bobbed up and down on him enthusiastically. She slowed her ministrations to catch his approving smirk with her smoky grey eyes. The burn of lust was contorting his features slightly- gritted teeth and a tense jaw. Eira carefully studied his reaction as she released him with a wet pop and licked her swollen, red lips suggestively. The stone floor was cold and unyielding to her scraped knees, but she was far too preoccupied to care about the grazes that were forming. Kneeling before him like this felt delightfully taboo.

An impatient growl escaped Ramsay's throat, he ran his fingers through her dark raven hair and gripped the cascading strands tightly with his strong hands. It was taking him all the restraint he could muster to refrain from trying to force her small face back down upon him. But doing so would ruin the fun of trying to coax it out of her. He wanted her to admit how much she needed him. He wanted her to beg for his thick member back in her mouth.

"You are cruel to tease me like this Eira," he said as his fingers twitched threateningly.

"I remained loyal on bitter nights, taking no bedwarmers or paying any visits to Ros's brothel in Winter Town. Would you deny me?" His eyes sparkled with amusement.

"No my Lord," Eira responded, biting down on her lip coyly.

"I didn't think so. You like being down on your knees before me don't you? It makes you wet sucking on my cock like a filthy whore," Ramsay said coolly.

She was embarrassed at the feeling that spooled in her stomach when he spoke to her like this. She tried to respond by returning her attentions to his engorged cock that was pulsing slightly and turning purple at the tip but he pushed her away gently.

"Beg me."

"Please Ramsay," she whispered.

"That's my good girl, open your mouth," he demanded as he guided his cock back in and sunk himself deep into her willing throat.

Eira gagged and spluttered ungracefully at the rough intrusion. Her eyes were watering considerably and saliva was dripping lewdly down her chin. But she forced herself to relax and breathe steadily through her nose as his muscular thighs came crushing against her face as he fucked her mouth.

Ramsay held her head steady and gave several more hard, deep thrusts before her name fell from his lips and came with a powerful cry. Warm fluid squirted into her mouth, starting to fill it with cum that she gulped down greedily. Sour and slightly salty but uniquely him.

Ramsay's entire body continued to jerk from the force of his climax. His hold on Eira's hair was almost painful as he forced her to remain open and receiving. Hips grinding rhythmically and his cock still throbbing as the pleasure ebbed and waned. Eira relished the final pulse of cum, loving Ramsay's taste in his mouth. She cleaned his shaft and licked all the remnants of his orgasm off until he went lax and sunk to the floor beside her- sated. She rest her head on his broad shoulders and let him support her weight on his lap. She stole a glance up at at him and was pleased to find the afterglow of pleasure still etched into his strikingly handsome features. Her lips were plump and sticky, sweat clung to the tendrils of her hair that she swept back from falling into her eyes.

"My turn," she purred.

* * *

Eira ran her fingers through Ramsay's hair, it was dark and wild not unlike the man himself. She planted a wet kiss on his marble cheek and crept out of bed cautiously. She walked on the height of her tiptoes- she didn't dare to let the soles of her feet make contact with the stone floor lest it make any noise. She didn't know what was possessing her to leave his side. His cosy featherbed beckoned to her. It was hot and heady beneath the furs, where she had spent much of the night unable to sleep after their lovemaking. She had pressed herself up against his warm body and wrapped her small, delicate hands around his waist- nuzzling into the crevice of his back and ruminating on her quiet, secret thoughts. Ramsay surprisingly didn't seem to mind it when they slept this way. She felt small against his great expanse- as though she was a dragon rider about to take flight. But there was a knot of her guilt in her stomach and a restless energy that she couldn't contain. Something that drew her away.

The tone of their reunion last night had caught her by surprise. It made her feel even more guilty about sneaking out like a thief in the night. While their usual lovemaking was often violent and involved games of power and domination- this had been something altogether different. They had been soft and careful after the initial rough blow job. The sex reminded her of the time he had dressed her for the hunt. Tender.

While the reunion she had oft fantasised about was animalistic and hungry, where they devoured each other like direwolves to prey- this had been more patient and deliberate. It was like they were reacquainting each other with every little curve and hard edge of their bodies. As though they had all the time in the world and war and political upheaval would never drag Ramsay from their chambers again. It had been even better than the things she had thought about when she was alone at night and yearning for his touch. The things that Eira found would make her wickedly trail her fingers South between her thighs.

Ramsay had cradled her head between his strong hands as he thrust into her over and over until she released all over his cock in a spectacular fashion. It had been even better than her inadequate imagination or expectations could conjure.

* * *

The icy air would have felt sharper than the incisors of Ramsay Snow's hounds to a person without the stubborn, single minded focus that she possessed. She didn't notice the snowflakes that pummelled down upon her shoulders and soaked through her thin bedclothes to form damp spots. She was determined. Confidently stepping over the dangerously slick ice that led to Abbey's grave. Mylenda Caron in another life. When she had visited the first time it hadn't been too difficult to spot the patch of freshly disturbed snow where Ben Bones had buried her mangled body. This time she was even quicker and more sure footed.

Eira reached the spot without a single misstep and sadly noted that the flowers she had lain previously had already withered and died. Their frozen black husks were scattered over the dirty snow. She tried to push the thought of what Abbey must look like beneath the cold ground out of her head. The husk of her body that she had been told was once a great beauty long ago. What bits remained of her after Ramsay's dogs had torn her flesh to pieces? She tried to forget what it had felt like to sink a knife into her. Or the particular sound the blood had made bubbling from her chest. It had slid into her like butter. The Bolton's blades were indeed sharp.

"Ramsay wouldn't have even laid her to rest," she whispered to the silent, foreboding chill. Not even a bird or cricket chirped in the cold. The woods sounded abandoned. Had they too wanted to flee South?

Eira knew that Ramsay wouldn't have intervened like Ben Bones had. He would have let his dogs finish their meal that was claimed from the bottom of the battlements where Ashter and Eira had thrown her. She didn't think Poppy had a grave. The poor girl he had hunted in what felt like a lifetime ago. She had never seen any sign of one in the woods.

Eira didn't know if the Gods were listening as she whispered apologies to the ground, she didn't expect any sort of confirmation or reply. The air was eerily still. Here she felt grounded. She wasn't filled with that sense of panic and frenetic urgency- as though she was going to float away at any moment.

A branch snapped suddenly in a pine tree, startling her. As if she had been woken from a spell, she felt gooseprickles dance over her arms and the uncomfortable sensation of her wet clothes sticking against her frigid skin. She grit her teeth to stop them from chattering violently. The sun had just started to peek out from the horizon, barely puncturing through the thick fog that blanketed the air. It was time to go home. If she lingered any longer she risked death from exposure.

When she reached the familiar walls of the Dreadfort she tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, keeping her head down and eyes averted. But perhaps it would be all for nought, it had been impulsive and foolish to return to the grave. Ramsay had eyes everywhere.

Eira reached the chambers and quietly crept back into the room, carefully tucking herself back into the warm layers of furs. She tried helplessly to still her shuddering body. Ramsay was still sleeping peacefully, his alabaster skin was hot to touch and she had to put her finger to her lips to stop an appreciative moan from escaping at the welcome contact. He roused slightly as she pushed herself up against him, desperate for his warmth.

He woke with a startle to her cold, wet body wedged neatly against him.

"Where have you been Eira?" he muttered, still half in the fog of confusion that one gets when awoken abruptly.

"I had to use the privy if you must know," she said trying to sound indignant.

"Don't.. Lie... To... Me," Ramsay said, emphasising each word in a low and even tone. His tone was even more intimidating when he was this calm.

He was certainly awake now.

"At a grave My Lord," Eira replied softly. There was no point in trying to lie again. It would only be a matter of time before he interrogated and tortured the castle until he found out the truth.

"Whose grave demands the attention of my Lady and takes her from my bed at this hour?" a thin smile was spreading across his lips, his face brightening slightly. She had piqued his interest.

"Mylenda Caron."

His eyes widened in surprise. It was rare to catch Ramsay so off guard.

"I killed her," she admitted in the ghost of a voice. And with that the whole story spilled out of her in a frantic pitch and rushed, long sentences that ran onto each other.

She thought he would be angry. That he would punish her. But instead he looked vaguely entertained.

"Well I'm glad you managed to keep yourself busy while I was away my love," he smirked.

Eira should have felt relieved at his serene demeanour. But it was almost dismissive. The sleepless nights. The crippling guilt. Constant rumination on her betrayal. She was almost offended at the lack of response that he felt the whole debacle warranted.

An unpleasant thought popped into her head; 'you are starting to _bore_ him.' Perhaps he had found a maid more fair and of noble birth in Winterfell. Someone who would impress his father. Prettier. More interesting. Well read and clever in all the ways that beguiled a man of ambition. Maybe he was lying when he had claimed to remain loyal. He was good at lying.

"You had better hope that my father doesn't find out about this though- he was quite attached to the filthy servant. Even Bethany didn't dare killing her outright," he added.

"She wasn't always a servant though was she Ramsay?" she replied bravely.

"It doesn't matter what she may or may not have been. The only thing that matters in this world is what you are remembered for- what you become. Her house was dead, brought to ruin. She had no heirs. She died a filthy peasant... Do you think it matters that some people think of me as a bastard? They fear me. The only name they will utter in my presence is Bolton. How much respect you command is everything. If you play your cards better perhaps you could rise in station too Eira," Ramsay said seriously, but uttered the last line a little less forcefully.

And with that, Ramsay changed the topic rather quickly. He seemed excited as he told her of his plan to dress as a common servant to gain Theon Greyjoy's trust. The plan was to allow him to believe that he would aid him in escape, but lead him on a wild goose chase through the woods and back to the Dreadfort's torture dungeon. His eyes glimmered fiercely as he described it, full of a passion and fire she hadn't seen in his eyes since the day he had met her. Theon had sparked his intellectual interest. A new toy to play with.

She felt a little sour when he left abruptly to visit the dungeons. Almost a little bitter. She thought they would hide away in their little world a little longer now the truth was out and there was nothing between them. Like they did when they had first met. It had been so long since they had seen each other and already he seemed a little distant. More preoccupied. He had graced her with a response to her misdeeds and dastardly adventures, but he hadn't given it nearly as much focus as she had anticipated. She almost wished he would have punished her and taken her over his knee to whip soundly.

"Theon." She said the name out aloud. "Theon." She repeated. It had an unpleasant ring to it. It didn't sound right in her mouth. What was the unfamiliar feeling snaking in her belly? Was it jealousy? That was insane. She didn't have any right to feel that way. Especially after her betrayal and the secrets. Ramsay obviously despised him. He planned on torturing him. So why should she feel jealous?


End file.
